The lone knight
by d'elfe
Summary: 2010. Sequel to 'All Hail to the King'. Frances is the Keeper of Time, and she has accomplished many more travels through time ever since the fifth century where she met Arthur and his knights. Maybe now, time has come for her to shed loneliness behind, and trust a soul she'd known and lost long ago.
1. Chapter 1 - Fifteen hundred years

**Dearest followers of Frances's stories, I declare the sequel of 'All Hail to the King' open **** For those who didn't read the King Arthur 'All Hail to the King' nor 'Innocence's journey' (Lord of the Rings), I have included a note down this chapter to put you on tracks. As for my faithful readers, I advise to also read the note since it summarises what happened to Frances from 2006 (return from King Arthur) to 2010 (time of this sequel).**

**For the readers that are from the stargate fandom, it will take a while before you meet Daniel Jackson and the other members of stargate SG1. Not before chapter 13, and it will take place in season 9 and 10. This fiction is centered around Frances and Tristan, former knight of the round table. It incorporates the stargate fandom, and mentions the previous adventures of Frances as the Keeper of Time. Cheers !**

Fifteen hundred years watching over her. To bask in her light, to see her wounded by the loss of her friends, and yet still getting attached to the people she met. She couldn't help it. He'd seen her save this baby by giving her life force, seen her master her blade and bind with its magic, her will the only thing that kept her going as she struggled to keep up in the mountains of Japan. Each time she travelled on a mission, he would find her. Each time, she had improved her skills. Better at fencing, better with her bow, his bow.

Her emotions as well, got more controlled, even if she still felt keenly. It was her strength, this ability to bestow love upon the people around her. He'd seen how her actions affected others, how Arthur had accepted that his knights went to Sarmatia to gather their families. His love for them, and the present of freedom was the strength that drove them back to him, to Camelot, and to the knights of the round table. A place were no Sarmatian descendant would be enslaved by Rome.

He'd seen how her heart healed others, namely one Hajime Saitou as she saved his last born, and gave him hope. Her advice, cryptic enough, yet strong to the emperor of Japan as the Kitsune they thought her to be. Witch to the Romans, Kitsune to the Japanese, water spirit to the English and fairy to him. His little fairy. His lonely fairy, for never her elvish betrothed ever seconded her. Where was he? The elf Prince who should have loved her to the end? The very being that had occupied her mind and soul in the fifth century?

He'd seen her married to Stephen Maturin out of loneliness, felt her confusion as she realised her mistake. Even dead, there was a pang of disapproval in his energy. Her heart was not healed yet, but she'd been desperate for affection, for the normalcy of having a husband. Only to lose him as the necklace called her back. He'd distracted a few men on the Acheron so that they couldn't lend a blow on her, just as he'd been helping each time she jumped into the fray. It was his form, in spirit, that prevented Saitou from striking her down on the battlefield. A wave of fresh air, as the police officer would describe it later on, with the distinct scent of wood and warning, stalling his hand.

Always by her side, a promise he'd made fifteen hundred years ago. He couldn't do much but be here, and lend his strength when she failed, or send her a cold breeze when she crumbled. Being a free spirit now had its perk, but could be frustrating as he couldn't hold her in his arms. All powerful yet useless in the material world.

He'd had time to heal his soul, embraced the light, reflecting on the bitterness of his past. Tristan was dead, his darkness gone with him, freed by the little fairy as she had flooded his soul with her love. Her tears landing on his face was the only physical memory he retained. She'd given him unconditional love, a love of the purest kind, and Tristan repaid her by sending his own in return.

Suddenly, a bright light brushed against his ethereal body. Warmth and relief seeped through as a form materialised before his very eyes. Deep blue eyes, a chiselled chin, long flowing white hair and striking features faced him, the expression one of benevolence and wisdom. Pure, bright light radiated from him, creating a halo around his form, the light permeating through his pure skin. Never before had he laid eyes upon such a beautiful man. For he was beautiful, in a powerful way. An angel of sorts.

— "Hello, knight," came his deep rumbling voice.

— "Hello…"

— "You may call me Olórin, humble servant of Manwë[1], and friends of the Keeper of Time."

Waves of benevolence and gentleness radiated from the angel, causing Tristan to blurt out his question.

— "Are you dead?"

— "Nay, sir knight. I am merely able to penetrate this plane of existence. The Valar sent me"

If he'd had a body, Tristan would have nodded. Frances had mentioned the Valar; the Gods who controlled the magic of her necklace. As a knight, he had not cared much for her folklore. His own beliefs, of spirits and shamans, had been stowed away for lack of better use. He had no care for religion at the time, and meeting a messenger from the Valar left him rather unsettled. Eliciting to stay silent, the knight's spirit nonetheless enjoyed the pure and beautiful sight of Olórin.

— "You have kept your promise, saved her life, and lent your shoulder to appease her heartaches. The Valar are grateful for your sacrifice.

— "It was no sacrifice. I love her. It is my duty."

Olórin nodded sagely, his deep blue eyes boring holes into his ethereal form. Then his powerful voice sounded again, the vibes passing through him like rays of sunshine through clouds.

— "Mayhap now is time for you to go down."

— "Go down where?"

The ageless being watched him, the intensity of his gaze betraying his old age, while his face was as smooth as a young man. A pointed ear emerged from the flow of immaculate hair as he cocked his head aside.

— "You deserve another life, one where your choices will not be taken from you. You have served the Valar well, albeit unknowingly, by taking care of Frances in her endeavours"

Olórin, formerly known as Gandalf, didn't dwell on the specifics. He'd pleaded Tristan's cause until Manwë relented. Frances, too, deserved a companion by her side. The hesitation in the knight's spirit, though, tugged as his Maiar's heart.

— "You mean, reincarnate, to live again? Can I do that?"

— "Yes. Are you up for it?"

Tristan's spirit retreated in its own core, inspecting his wounds, finding still a little bit of darkness. The memories of his past life. It didn't hurt, though. But it was still there. Sensing his unease, and harsh judgement, Olórin smiled at him.

— "Those scars are part of your soul, Tristan. She, also, has some. "

The rest went unsaid as Tristan's ghost pondered his choices. Yes, Frances bores scars of battles and sadness, but it didn't prevent her from being an extraordinary woman. Could he, as well, become a great man? Hope twinkled in his chest, a fresh feeling that sent his mind reeling with the possibilities until Olórin's deep voice coaxed him.

— "Nine years from now, Frances will be born. She will need your support"

Frances was a magnet for trouble; she would be in danger as soon as she reached a decent age. If he was older, and trained, he would be able to watch over her.

— "Aye. Aye, I will"

The knight's tone was resolute, his mind ready for this new adventure.

— "You are a good man, knight. You must shed Tristan's mantle, leave him behind. Be proud, you have selflessly served, and might very well find happiness in this new task."

— "Thank you, Olórin"

The Maiar's lips formed a full smile. Even in spirit form, the knight was observant; he knew the Maiar had something to do with this new possibility, and took it as a present. It was such a pity that this man should stay on earth, and not set foot in middle earth. Gandalf would have put him to good use in the impending war, especially as a ranger beside Aragorn. But it was not to be. The ranger King would have to make do with other allies. For the moment though, Olórin needed to cast the knight's spirit down to earth.

— "A friendly warning. You know the limitation of the human body, and you might have trouble finding her at first. It will take time, and patience. Heed my words. Eventually, you will. Do you still wish to enter the world of third dimension, knight?"

The Maiar paused, his words seeping in the younger spirit. Would he back down? At last, the knight nodded once.

— "Patience I have aplenty. I will find her, and protect her."

— "I expected no less from you. Very well"

Lifting a hand in farewell, Olórin recited the enchantment in the Quenya tongue. Flashes of bright light enveloped the knight's spirit, pulsating through his ethereal body before he dissolved into the halo altogether.

— "I henceforth commit you to the flesh. Namarië, knight"

And down went the knight's spirit, down to the flesh, his soul anchoring into a newly created fetus.

Olórin watched as he grew, twitching and moving into his loving mother's womb. He watched as he came into the world, his parents weeping with joy; they called him Kristan – a Christian mind – the sonority whispered by an angel as they picked up names. His heart grew restless when the baby started to forget his memories, started to forget why he'd come down, crying his lungs out in fright that he might forget Frances altogether. His mother held him close; she didn't understand his panicked cries, but kept rocking him until he settled. Another chance at life, in a loving family, away from war and battlefield. Whenever he could, Olórin descended beside the baby, basking him in the light.

He could do not more to help baby Kristan: the memory loss was necessary for a new being to be created. Such was the way of reincarnation.

**_So, what do you think of this plotline, uh?_**

**_I'm going to make a quick summary of what has happened to Frances during Tristan's time as a ghost. This contains spoilers on other stories, do be mindful if you don't want to know. Technically, Kristan watched over Frances as a spirit from 472 AD until the day he was reborn in 1975. During this time, Frances travelled several times with her necklace._**

**_2008 →1805 — Frances travels on a man-o-war which aim is to apprehend a French Corsair ship during the war with Napoleon (Master and Commander — le navire)_**

**_2009 → 1876 – Frances is stuck in the mountains with the Japanese war chief Katsumoto (The last Samuraï). There, she learns to master her blade, and through deep meditation, discovers that when the blade turns bright, can cut through anything. She is then captured by the head of police from Tokyo (Hajime Saitou – Ruroni Kenshin) and saves his third born by channelling her energy into the baby. People think her a Kitsune (a Japanese spirit) and she plays along to save her own life, bestowing some wise words to the emperor before disappearing._**

**_2010 → 1663 – Frances meets Carlisle Cullen (Twilight) to help him out of the cave he's locked himself since he became a vampire. See the story "The Keeper of Time"._**

**_This means that Tristan has watched over her in 1663 first (even if she was older then), then in 1805 and at last, in 1876 in medieval Japan. This, for him, is the last instalment of Frances' travels. On the other hand, Tristan knows nothing of the developments with Legolas and Melenwë (Innocence's journey). His only clue is that when he met Frances in the fifth century, she was betrothed to Legolas. The rest of the story (sequels to LoTR stories) happen while he is alive in the present (2008, 2009), flesh and bone. Thus, he doesn't know about it, and doesn't know that Frances had abandoned her love for Legolas in favour of her clone – Melenwë._**

**_And for the moment anyway, he has forgotten all of it so … _**

* * *

[1] Manwë is a Valar. In other terms, a God of middle earth. Olórin is a Maiar; a Valar's second and servant. Known as Gandalf in his human form (a wizard in the lord of the rings war), he is, in spirit, akin to an elf in form. The equivalent of an angel for those who can see him in his original form.


	2. Chapter 2 - Gospel - Jan 2010

**_Hey, I am humbled by the mount of responses I had for this sequel. To Koba, here is the deal: Tristan, as a ghost, has watched over Frances from his death to 1975, years of his second birth. So he doesn't know everything that happens in the present. Unfortunately for him, Frances' mission to middle earth is in the present (a fact that is established in Innocence's journey). So he has not witnessed anything related to Legolas, nor how Frances was cloned to join him. Of course, that makes it more fun scenario wise :p_**

**_This is just a short scene before the first chapter. I hope it will shed some light on a certain knight's background._**

He couldn't believe what he saw.

He'd heeded Lucie's call, and dragged himself to the Gospel concert she wanted him to attend with her. He knew the girl wanted more of him; like many role players, she was in awe of his lithe form when, on the battleground, he wielded his sword in a trance. As an instructor, he knew well how little ones looked up to him; the unbalance created all sorts of infatuations. The truth, though, was more difficult than the reality of those crystallisation. Any relationship based on this admiration could only lead to disappointment and deceptions; been there, done that already. He wouldn't respond to it, couldn't respond for his heart was in shambles, his mind despairing after his recent divorce. The only silver lining in his situation was that, after years of trying to save his relationship, and failing, it left him free to take off from Denmark on a whim. Ending there, bearing south of France's scorching heat, taking a job at the medieval company for scraps, but he didn't care. He could live with little, or camp in the backcountry for all he cared.

Somehow, after breaking all his attachments, he felt a new sense of freedom. Like the wind picking up his sails, as he lived in celibacy – and convinced to never let another woman crush his heart – it gave him more time to be himself. To dance, something he hadn't done for a while. To practise his archery. To roam the lands on his own, locked in his thoughts, with no one to disturb him. No strings attached, and a certain nomadic life when the medieval company attended events. But most of all, it gave him more time to unravel the great mystery of his life, to find out who he was. More than fifteen years ago, the dreams had come, taking him into a coldish country, fighting blue painted people alongside brothers in arms. Sometimes, he even saw things while awake. After years wondering if he was, indeed, going crazy, he's surmised that he was sane enough compared to the rest of the world.

Whenever he spotted a bird of prey, he longed to shoot his arm up. Years ago, he had confided to his wife after many years of silence; she had dismissed them for fantasies. Yet, something felt off. As he practised more and more with his bows and blades, a strange sense of belonging washed over him. Ever since he wielded a blade, he felt more at peace. The instructors had been impressed by his progress, and when he started pulling moves than no one had taught him, they called him a natural. His wife, though, wasn't too keen on replacing her husband with a medieval fighter. And then, she had appeared. The woman. Red hair brushing her waist, tied up in a braid that twisted on itself and danced as she walked. Hazel eyes, nearly golden in the sunlight, shedding tears as he died, and promised to look after her in the afterlife.

Had he done it? Been a ghost by her side? Fulfilled his promise? The notion was so preposterous that he felt like laughing at himself. He, a Christian man, believing in reincarnation.

For the moment though, his jaw was slack. For sure enough, the woman from his dreams had appeared on stage. There, half hidden in the shadows, her hair secured in the same twisting braid. His lips curved into an incredulous smile. This couldn't be pure luck. The probabilities were too remote. And then, he heard no more of her neighbour's words, no more than the rhythm of the song as they started the famous, 'Oh happy day'. His eyes teared up at the song, for it stirred memories that seemed buried in his soul, memories of another life.

Everything seemed to click into place, relief washing through him as he watched her, half – hidden in the last line. As if she wanted to remain unnoticed, but couldn't help her light to radiate as she sang. He'd found her, the woman from his dreams. He wasn't crazy.

Until his rational mind kicked him upon the head, screaming that he'd lost it.


	3. Chapter 3 - LARP

**_Hey,_**

**_As promised, the first chapter of the next installment. I will give the tone, if you see my meaning, about how the story unfolds for Frances and Kristan._**

**_Everything written in italics will be French. I had considered writing both replicas, but it burdens the text so I removed it. It is a bit of mind gymnastics, I know. If you'd rather read the French and have the translation in brackets, let me know. It won't be too difficult for me to add them: p_**

**_I hope you'll enjoy it._**

They had talked her ear off about this live-action role play, so much that she had relented, at last. And so, embarking in her bright blue Suzuki swift bought in Norway – four-wheel drive, of course – Frances had loaded her elvish armour, bow and quiver, and dressed the part of the witch warrior she was supposed to be. She doubted anyone would be as authentic as her given that her clothes and weapons were elvish, for the most part. She always went on missions dressed in elvish garb; the fabric was soft and sturdy, it had yet to tear despite everything it had sustained.

She had chosen Tristan's bow over her elvish one without knowing why. Her quiver was full of his arrows, retrieved from the battlefield of Badon Hill. She had added a few fake ones, especially for the game, and strapped a roleplay blade in a scabbard on her back. Nonetheless, her elvish sword rest at her hip, the precious blade forged by Glorfindel, infused by the magic of the Vanyar. Now, after her latest travel to Japan, she knew how to use its full potential. With her elvish blade, she was close to invincible. Not that she expected to use it; it was just for show. But still, it felt right, strapped at her hip with its engraved scabbard. She hated everyday life where she had to part from it.

As Frances stepped out of her car, many stares met her. With her hair plaited in French braid, she knew she looked the part more than anyone on this parking lot. Her colleagues greeted her with praise, their eyes trained on the quality of her adornments. To them, it was just a game, a reenactment of the past through a scenario. To her, it was a way to soothe her heartache, and dedicate this moment to all the people she had left behind and would never see again: Legolas, for one, who now lived blissfully with her clone on Arda, Aragorn and the twins, the knights of the round table, Hajime Saitou And Katsumoto in medieval Japan, her second husband as well, Stephen Maturin[1] that had died in the middle of the 19th century, and many, many more. Being there today was a way to acknowledge their teachings. Each of them had made her who she was, and today, she was proud to step out of the shadows. Of course, no one would ever understand what it meant to her.

Her team had enlisted her on the archery competition. The tournament would define how much money her team would possess. They would camp overnight, without any modern appliances authorised, and continue the 'quest' on the morrow, wandering in the woods of the Cévennes, picking fights with other teams. Her colleagues were excited as hell. Frances smiled. This could be fun.

— "_Hey Frances, nice outfit" (italics is French)_

Frances nodded her thanks, her mind a little troubled that her office colleagues would see her in the Keeper of Time's outfit. Never before had her two worlds mixed too closely and something akin to fear settled in her heart. For a moment, she felt like singing 'When two worlds collide' from Iron Maiden, and then snorted at her own stupidity.

— "_So, where to?"_ asked Frances to Aurélien, a rusty haired colleague slightly taller than she was.

Lucie, a plump blond with rounded eyes of blue, arched her neck to stare at the dusty path ahead as she started walking. She was clad in a linen dress with a square neckline, revealing her little breasts, and coiffed with a white linen cloth. Her waist was cinched with a large metal belt, her shoulders protected by the same shade of metallic hoops. A fake sword was strapped at her back, too long to be able to ride without hurting a horse. Who cared? There would be no horses today. Frances followed her colleagues; taking silent steps in her elvish boots.

— "_That way_," indicated Aurélien_. "We'll meet our fourth guy at the archery range. He's already there"_

— _"Neat"_

Lucie was already bouncing up and down at the idea of their last member.

— "_You'll see. He's a bit gruff, be a great archer, and swordsman. And definitely a looker_"

That definition rang a bell that sent a pang of regret to her heart. Hence, Frances braced herself and answered in an emotionless voice.

— "_Good for him"_

— _"Oh don't be like that. Even you can't be immune to his charm, you'll see. Although I warn you, he is difficult to approach"_

Frances laughed this time.

— _"I've met a lot of difficult guys. Don't worry"_

No one would be more difficult than Tristan had been. Frances slid a glance as Lucie; her eyes shone with excitement. If her colleague wanted to hunt the guy – her infatuation was obvious – she'd be welcome to do so. Frances had given up on men long ago, realising that her standards were quite difficult to uphold in a modern setting. Immortal elvish Prince? Knight of the round table? Eighteen's century spy and doctor? Vigilante and millionaire? The list was not as short as expected, but still quite unattainable in her everyday life. And this list didn't encompass her friends. Who could handle hanging around a man who'd died more than eight times, and ascended twice? Or a general of the US Army on first name basis with the president[2]? What about a three-hundred-year-old vampire[3]? Ah, not easy for a social call. Her life was weird. Period. There was no place for a man by her side. She was alone, and not unhappy.

The three of them walked ahead, leaving the parking lot and disappearing under the trees. Frances' cloak caught the wind, billowing slightly as she lightly stepped on the path. By her side, Aurélien walked, dressed as a badass fighter with fake leather and tin.

— _"So … you look the part. Where did you get such a fine armour?"_

— _"The lady of the light had it custom-made for me."_

A slight smile curved Frances' rosy lips at the mention of Lady Galadriel, and Lucie stared at her suspiciously. After all, this was a LARP. She could say whatever she wanted, no one would quite believe her. Aurélien merely nodded, his eyes taking in the intricate details of the engraving up on her shoulders and breastplate.

— _"I see. Playing the part already. What's your character's name?"_

— _"I'm me. Frances, very exotic uh? And it's good they make this even in spring and not summer. I'd be roasted with the equipment."_

After all, the armour had been forged to keep her alive at Helm's deep in early spring. It was very well suited. How she longed to see the golden hall once more in Edoras, of the tower of Echtelion standing proudly over Minas Tirith. Old memories of another life … was it only seven years ago? Aurélien's down-to-earth retort called her back to reality.

— _"Yeah. But the night will be cold. Are you sure your cloak will be warm enough?"_

The memory of a frozen lake popped into her mind. Her elvish cloak had kept her from freezing that day until it got soaked by her plunge into the icy depths.

— _"Yeah. Don't worry. My cloak and I have roamed many icy places in the past, and we both survived."_

Again, her colleague only nodded, slightly surprised that Frances would take her role so early in the game. He, for one, was there so have fun. There were many other groups treading the path in the forest. The costumes and characters were sometimes plain, sometimes absolutely crazy, but there were overall many good ideas. And people had obviously taken a great care in the designing of their costumes. Yet, not many seemed as authentic as Frances. Except for a few crusaders, whose attire was worn down to the cord, weapons used and cared for.

A tingling sensation suddenly ran down Frances' spine, and she cocked her head to watch the forest. Nothing. Weird. Her instincts were screaming danger, but there was no time to linger on the thought, for Aurélien's voice came stronger than expected in her hear.

— _"Ah! There he is! Our Danish friend. Hey Kristan!"_

Kristan, a Christian man, she mused. Aurélien gestured to a tall guy heading their way, but he was too far to distinguish his features. Would he match Lucie's description? A gruff looker's, she had said. Even in the distance, Frances could distinguish the heavy armour, breastplate, bracers and tight pieces composed of a thousand tiny scales. His hair, a strange shade between blond and light brown, danced about his face as he jogged to reach them, the beginning of a beard hiding the line of his jaw from view, albeit she could see that his sideburns were much longer than was fashionable … and framed his face nicely. Right. This was the charm Lucie was probably talking about. Perhaps because of his Danish origins? Some kind of ancient aura seemed to surround the man. His weapons called her attention for a while; on his back was strapped a Mongolian bow, and Frances could make out the numerous straps that probably indicated a quiver and a sword. His posture, though, seemed slightly familiar. As the man approached, still shaded under the trees, Aurélien explained to Frances.

— _"He works in the medieval company, hence the badass costume!"_

Frances' eyes squinted – the sun made it hard to see – to study the amazing grace of their fourth companion as he approached with purposeful strides, watching his movements despite the heavy armour that must have weighed a ton. He passed through a shady area and his features became clearer. Clear enough to… Her heart stopped, and she stumbled, breathless. Of course, his posture seemed familiar! But how was it even possible? That's it, she was crazy! For the slight curve of his lips might have been mistaken by someone unfamiliar, and the sharp angle of his cheekbones just barely. But his eyes… This brownish gaze faded to grey, intense, traversing all. She had known only one man with such eyes … a man whose talent with a blade was unmatched on earth … whose aim could have shamed an Olympic champion with the bow … a man who had died on the battlefield after kissing her senseless before leading her into a fearless cavalry charge.

— "_Here's our fencing instructor_" came Lucie's dreamy voice.

A punch to the gut would have had less effect than seeing Kristan's gaze set upon her face. Hell, five broken ribs or a ripped leg over her heart jumping out of her chest, anytime. Frances' air wooshed out of her lungs, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. A fencing instructor indeed.

— "_Of course he is,_" she mumbled.

Her remark was lost to her companions. Lost to all but Kristan. Eyes bulging out of his skull, he forced his mouth shut to refrain from openly gaping. She was there! The woman on stage, the woman from his dreams! The voice of his friends was but a just a nuisance for he could hear nothing more than the blood rushing in his ears. His lips uttered the words before he would even think.

— "Tempore custodem"

The Keeper of Time, in Latin. A long-lost souvenir of a conversation when, at the time, he had nearly killed her. Her golden stare pinned him in place, her features so shocked that he feared she might faint. Such a strange sight, when he remembered her fierceness as she fought, piercing and slashing without battling an eyelash. Her chest heaved, her lips pursed, face blank and pale skin. But her eyes spoke volumes. Disbelief, heartache, guilt and regret. It was so overwhelming that for a moment, the forest disappeared. All the familiar noises, the smells, the scuttling of mice feet on the ground, the shuffling of feathers in the trees, even the wind seemed to have halted. Did she know what she was? Was she, like him, dreaming of past battles against the Saxons? The possibilities ran through his mind at such speed that it overwhelmed him completely. She had recognised him, of this he had no doubt. Yet, his mind was still screaming.

— _"Do you guys know each other?"_

Count on Lucie to witness his near-seizure, and nail it without any hint of subtility. Powerless to voice his thoughts, Kristan could only address her an incredulous look before Frances regained her composure.

— _"Erm. No, but he looks so much like a friend of mine, it is striking."_

— _"Oh, all right"_

Was there any relief in Lucie's voice? Kristan badly hoped she would be able to quell her curiosity, because the woman in front of him looked pretty close to having a breakdown.

— _"Have we met him?"_

Too bad. A short silence ensued, so heavy that Kristan felt its weight upon his shoulders. The gleam of sadness hidden behind the woman's golden eyes was enough to clench his own heart.

— _"No, he died years ago."_

Her tone was final, smothering any other question. But even though her words were addressed to Lucie, her eyes bore holes into him. Who was he, the man who looked like him? He longed to ask… But he wouldn't, not when Frances' face had turned into a mask to hide her heartache. By his side, Lucie laid a hand over her arm.

— _"I'm sorry"_

'As you should be for prying', nearly retorted Kristan. Instead, the archer bit his tongue. Why was he being so protective? Perhaps it was only his humanity pouring forth, annoyed that Lucie couldn't see the pain hidden behind those brown eyes. Not once he questioned his ability to read Frances so well; perhaps then he would have realised that the lady had remained stone-faced. The Keeper of Time, dealt with a death blow, stoic in her demise. Frances straightened, turning an icy glare to Lucie as she concluded the exchange.

— _"So am I"_

Each of her words seemed loaded with tones of unspeakable things. The ways of the Keeper of Time. Lucie's blue eyes lunged to the ground for a moment before she turned to him for support. Her eager and open attention made him uneasy as she studied every aspect of his expression, drinking his appearance. And frowning as his gaze returned to the little fairy. Kristian's spine stiffened as he tried to regain his bearings. With the young engineer's infatuation, he'd have to be very careful in his prodding. Turning to Lucie, he nodded to her in greeting.

— _"I, er, was just wondering what are your characters."_

— _"I am a sorceress," responded Lucie with an easy smile._

Kristan nodded, turning to Aurélien.

— _"Warrior, who would have guessed?"_

This time, Kristan smirked. Aurélien was an easy-going man with lots of dark humour, a very welcome character in this tense atmosphere. Kristan didn't add anything; they all knew he would be their archer and so no point in babbling about it. Then Frances' voice reached for him, her tones calm, yet tense behind the façade. Her use of English, though, was very welcome. She must have picked up his uneasiness in French. That blasted language was, after all, not meant for Nordic people!

— "A witch warrior, as per the game's rules"

— "Ah. A little fairy…"

A heated gaze passed between them. Kristian accepted a clap on his shoulder from Aurélien, his face impassive. Was it even possible that she didn't know? Talk of the game resumed merrily as Aurélien and Lucie flanked him, taking him away from his thoughts as the young engineers gushed about his armour and looks. Truth be told, Kristian felt quite at ease with the heavy equipment on his back. After years of perfecting it, the armour now allowed him to move unrestrained. The frustration to bear a fake sword, though, was compensated by the authentic Mongolian bow on his back. He'd seen a bow slung across Frances back as well, and Aurélien supplied merrily that she would also take part in the archery contest.

— "_Will you_ now?" he asked, his tone teasing as he glanced at her weapon.

A sudden shrill ran through his body as he took in the design. That bow… It was so similar to the one he wielded as the knight he embodied in his dreams. Aurélien took a step forward, leaving him behind to link his arm with Lucie at the front.

— _"Come, we must strategise while those two guard our back."_

Smart man; he'd sensed something amiss. Behind them, Frances caught Kristan's gaze at her bow. Of course, he'd go straight for his possession.

— "Indeed I will, but I do not pretend to be a match for your skills," she answered, her eyes shining from an undecipherable emotion.

Eliciting to keep quiet at that – he did not want to gush but would probably win the contest anyway – Kristian's eyes roamed over Frances' equipment. It seemed as authentic as his, the intricate patterns engraved in the leather exotically charming. But even more surprising was the ease with which she prowled in her armour. It spoke of habit, it spoke of use.

— "Du er dansk?", came her quiet voice. (So you are Danish?)

Kristan nodded, startled by her peculiar accent. It should have been different, given her French origins.

— "Ja, jeg boede i københavn" (Yes, I come from Copenhagen)

Frances' brow furrowed as she processed his sentence, and then smiled with fondness. Kristan lost a little sanity for a scant moment, his body humming to be the recipient of such a genuine expression. He wanted to know everything about her, wanted to place her, to understand how she came to be in this world, to cross his path anew.

— "Wilkomen til frankrike then" (Welcome to France, then)

There. The end of the word was incorrect and he could not help but ask about it.

— "Taler du dansk ?" (You speak Danish?)

— "Nei. Jeg snakker litt Norsk … but I feel more at ease in English, I admit" (no, I speak a little Norwegian)[4]

The rest of her sentence flowed easily, her English accent quite similar to the one he had heard from Nordic people.

— "So do I, French is such a difficult language"

There. It was the beginning of a civil conversation. A victory for a shy character like Kristan who had tremendous difficulties with small talk, especially amongst ladies. Let alone THIS particular lady.

— "Even for us, Frank," came her sarcastic reply.

Kristan shivered. She had not changed a bit from the young woman he'd seen in dreams.

— "Don't sell yourself short" came Lucie's voice as she joined them. "Your French is very good."

The little engineer, albeit less comfortable than Frances with English, had followed the entire conversation. Well, except for the Danish part. The blond girl shook her head at the unfairness of it all. What was it with Frances that drew all men to her? In the office, half of them wanted to sneak into her bed. But the woman just stood, red hair shining in the sun, freezing them to oblivion with a smile that never reached her eyes. And now, the handsome fencing instructor seemed all but enthralled by her, he that usually pushed people away with glares and coldness. And her smile, for once, was genuine, open. Damn that woman! She should have known better than to ask her to come to the LARP.

— "_My accent is terrible_," Kristan slipped to the little fairy beside him.

Frances' lips quirked upwards, a secretive smile on her face as she studied his features. As if she knew something he didn't. Kristian found her expression endearing, something in her called to him like never before, and he was determined to find out why. His gaze lingered a moment as she walked gracefully, her feet silent on the floor as she avoided the crunchy leaves and wet patches by instinct. She was used to the outdoors, as was he. The bow on her back stood out; it seemed a little too big for her small frame. Had it been anyone but her, Kristan would have dismissed the fact; many LARP players did not know how to choose weapons suited for them. The design was so authentic, the wood polished and taken care of, the arrows in her quiver all used for and slightly tainted. Was it a spot of faded red he saw on one of the feathers? Blood? No, it couldn't be. His mind was getting ahead of his brain. Now Kristan was at loss; he'd never been good with words, and tended to hurt people with his frankness. Gruff, they all called him. Callous, unapproachable, unnerving. None of those qualificatives helping him to get out of his shell. But then, he was too intrigued to let it go.

— "Your bow … it is beautiful."

Frances' perfectly shaped eyebrow quirked up, as if she was expecting him to ask about it.

— "Ah, I thought you might be intrigued given that you seem to carry its little brother. Do you make your own arrows?"

Kristan didn't comment on this peculiar assumption – little brother? – although his own bow was as tall as hers. She had given him a rope to hold on, and he was too happy to comply. Every single word from her mouth carried him closer to finding the truth.

— "Aye, I do"

— "You'll have to show me someday, if you don't mind. I am running out."

A short silence followed, and Frances' face fell, probably thinking she'd been too forward. But Kristan couldn't detach his eyes from the bow, and exhaled slowly before asking.

— "Where did you get it?"

Pain flashed in her eyes, washed away by a wave of sadness so unexpected that he nearly regretted his prying. Yet, his dreams plagued him, and he was resolute. This bow was the same he used in his dreams for God's sake! It could hold the answers he'd been looking for fifteen years! Frances' gaze locked with him briefly before she sighed and looked ahead. Her face grew still, her features locked in a memory.

— "I inherited it from a friend."

Well. This explained the size, but not the design.

— "A friend taller than you are?"

Her feet stopped in their tracks as she stared at him boldly, taking in his form from head to toe.

— "Yes. About your size, given an inch or so"

Her hazel eyes held him pinned, daring him to ask for more. Would this friend be the same one she had mentioned earlier? The man who resembled him? Kristan stood, transfixed. He had always been a quiet, private man with an acute sense of observation, picking up emotions from postures and the slight twitching of a muscle. There was so much fire in her gaze, her posture tense, ready to lash out, like a wounded animal. Raw pain, hidden away under the mask, but pouring out of her clouded eyes. Slowly, he resumed his walking, taking a few tentative steps before hers echoed behind him. The fencing instructor sighed, unable to make heads or tails of this new mystery. At least now, he knew where to find her, the woman of his dreams. As Frances' arm slightly brushed against his, the souvenir of her tears falling on his face hit him. The last sensation before everything had gone dark.

* * *

[1] 'Le navire,' Master and Commander

[2] That would be Daniel Jackson (who has more lives than a cat) and Colonel Jack O'Neill, now head of homeworld security and much loved by president Hayes.

[3] Carlisle Cullent, as seen in 'The Keeper of Time' story

[4] Danish and Norwegian are so close that the writing is nearly the same. It's the accent that distinguishes the two languages.


	4. Chapter 4 - Of Archery and Campfires

_**Hey there. I didn't get many reviews, I admit, but still feel like this chapter should be posted. Don't know why. I thank Tobiramamara and Mairi for their support nonetheless :) More confusion for Kristan to come on this day. And an archery contest :D**_

There were few contestants left in the competition, but very soon, Frances knew there would be no more. No one, as practised and hardened as they were, could be a match for Kristan's skills. That is, if his body remembered the incredible archer he used to be. And from the looks of the competition, it seemed very likely. Frances had been eliminated in the last round, missing a target that was a little too far. The young lady had bowed out with grace; she knew to be better in close range. Her bow was losing power, she felt as she practised, and didn't know how to remediate the issue. In the Middle Ages, bows had to be restrung periodically. But modern bows could last more than fifty years. And who, on earth, could possibly restring the bow that Tristan had carved and perfected in the first place? Who other than Tristan himself? Would Kristan be able to? Would his soul remember the technique? Given the gaping of all spectators around the archery range, hope was not lost. She would have to return the bow to its rightful master. Somehow, she felt more giddy at the prospect than sad to let it go. She would have given anything, four years ago, not to inherit the weapon.

Kristan's movements were graceful, his muscles tense, just the right amount to avoid from overexerting himself, his eyes intend on target without ever losing sight of the rest of the world. He had not even shed his armour despite the blazing sun, its design very close to the one he had died in, not the shabby one he used to wear. Scout one day, scout forever. He was, of course, less strung, less attune to danger. It was just as well; the life of a warrior was a tough one. No one deserved the years of slavery and brutal fighting that had broken his former self in the fifth century. Yet, his skill with a bow spoke of his former self, hidden below the layers of modern upbringing. Frances watched him, fascinated, as the latest contestants missed moving targets that were pierced dead centre by Kristan's arrows. Squinting in the sunlight, Frances contemplated his features as he unleashed his arrows. The stubble on his face didn't hide his jaw like his beard used to. It was surprisingly gentler than she expected. The changes were subtle, but noticeable to one who knew him. Somehow, it surprised her how well she remembered his face; Tristan had been dead for years now. Compared to the time she'd spent by his side – fifteen days – it spoke of the everlasting impression he'd left.

Hair just a tad lighter, maybe two more inches in stature, and the subtle roundness around his high cheekbones; born from his parents or from more nourishment, she didn't know. It suited him well. His body, though, had nothing to envy to the warrior he used to be. His posture said it all; it was all about taut muscles and efficiency, less deadly though. Aurélien had mentioned dancing at some point; after all, most dancers had bodies that Karateka would die for. And if his skill with a sword matched his proficiency with a bow, there was no doubt that Kristan trained thoroughly. Her only regret, now, was that she couldn't return his blade. It was probably stored in area 51, or at the SGC[1]. The very fact that his Dao – an original sword from the fifth century – had been retrieved by Merlin and stored in Avalon without rusting to death was a miracle by itself. She wondered when the old magician has retrieved the sword from Tristan's grave to hide it in his treasure.

Unfortunately, she couldn't say a word to Kristan about all of this. That would be a breach of her non-disclosure agreement with the US government. Nothing concerning Merlin and the SGC could ever pass her lips. One more secret to keep. But at least, he'd get his bow back. Distended and in need of repair, but it was better than nothing. Frances could only hope they would find a way to restring it. Perhaps they could find some tutorials on the internet?

A heavy round of applause concluded the uneven contest, calling her attention back to the archery range. Kristan picked up his arrows before a cheering crowd. A shy smile appeared on his face as the organisers consecrated him, and Frances's heart skipped a beat.

— _"__Wow"_

— _"__Yes! He's amazing, right? Couldn't believe it if you'd not seen it."_

Lucie's eyes were twinkling with admiration; Frances just grunted her agreement, amused by her colleague's infatuation.

— _"You have no idea" _was her levelled answer.

Yes, he was amazing, but it wasn't the reason for her exclamation. Rooted to the spot, Frances couldn't believe it. For the first time in fifteen hundred years, she'd seen a smile on his face. A small one, of course, but so genuine that her whole body hummed at the sight. Wow. Tristan smiled. Happily. Wow. Re wow. As the object of her musings strode forward, chatting quietly with Aurélien about the fake money they had won, and the clues they'd been given to fulfil their quest – some sort of race to find a magical woman in the woods and bring her back – , Frances couldn't help but feel self-conscious. Tristan had died, and before her stood another man who shared his looks – with a few adjustments, lighter skin, lighter hair, more gentle lines – and some of his skills. Yet, it wasn't him. This new man, Kristan, bore a Christian name, and was able to smile. His soul was brighter, his manners more relaxed, his mind not scarred by service and death. She, on the other side, was the same heartbroken and battle-hardened woman. The dark to his newfound light, how ironic! Staring at her boots, her mind very far away, Frances was surprised when his smooth voice addressed her. Another thing that had not changed.

— "You are skilled with a bow."

The young lady snapped to attention, sending him a playful look.

— "Says the man who won this contest single-handedly."

Kristan bowed his head with a tight-lipped smile, and had to attend to Lucie's gushing while Frances receded in the depth of her mind. He had offered a compliment, after a performance that was, in truth, not so great. That, too, was quite a shocker. Tristan only praised perfection, and scarcely enough to feast upon it! Frances nibbled on her lip for a moment, deciding that she rather liked it better than when he was broody. What Kristan lost in aloofness and fierceness, he had gained in joy. And still, the question lingered at the back of his mind. How was this even possible? Was he reincarnated? Did he remember his past life? How about his soul? Was he the same man as before, the same soul? Damn, this was too complicated for a day off. She'd rather delve into the depth of that horrible software at work than solve this mystery … or not.

The day was becoming frustrating as Aurélien and Lucie argued once more on the road to take, Frances patiently waiting alongside them as if she had not a care in the world. Winning the archery contest had been satisfying enough, albeit the challenge was meek. Most of those LARP players were not dedicated enough, or didn't have a bow as powerful as his, nor his numerous hours of practice to represent a threat. In south of France, at least. Maybe on an international level, he'd find some competition, but not here. Frances, though, seemed proficient enough. He'd peeked as her posture, her gestures as she landed her first arrows. They'd been no patent errors in her technique, even if there was room for improvement. Somehow, she seemed to shoot her recurve bow as she would a long bow with only one curvature. Her string, however, seemed to have lost its tension. It became even more obvious when she missed the last target. The weapon needed to be restrung, which meant it wasn't equipped with a modern synthetic one. Once more, he could only speculate on the origin of her bow.

Anyway, it wasn't as if he could talk about it in front of her colleagues. Not after the silent warning she'd issued earlier. For the moment, the young woman seemed lost in thought. Was she processing his presence? Given the glances she kept stealing at him, ad the secretive smile they sometimes shared when the others weren't looking, she seemed quite happy about it. Things were simple between them; they communicated through looks that became actions without even the need for words. Some kind of symbiosis based on trust and habit, as if their former selves had recreated a bond after a thousand years apart. Kristan bristled as he spotted a nice spot for the night, away from the forest with a nice view of the surroundings. What kind of bond was it? Friends? Lovers? Husband and wife? Brother and sister? Was he, altogether, extrapolating from nothing, sidetracking so much that he interpreted her actions wrongly? Unfortunately, the answers he craved – such as whether she possessed some memories of this knight he dreamt about – could not happen with witnesses.

And now that his fellow performers from the medieval company had joined them, it became close to impossible to hold a private conversation. Especially since the lady gathered quite some attention for herself. Pascal, for one, seemed positively charmed by her ways. Albeit she kept him at a distance, she smiled and joked easily. Kristan sighed. His questions would have to wait. A nagging fear told him she'd receive them with a laugh, dubbing him crazy, leaving him in an abyss of doubt for the rest of his life. Another, though, refused to accept defeat.

As they set up camp for the night, his partners started digging a hearth, latrines and organised themselves to cook something over the fire. Installing his own bedroll in the outer circle – Kristan was more tolerant to the cold – he watched Frances as she went from one chore to the other. Beside her, Lucie seemed quite at loss and decided to latch herself on his arm, once more.

— _"__I have never set a medieval camp. Care to tell me what I can do?"_

It was Frances who answered her sternly, in English.

— "Hunting is required if you lot want to eat."

One of the knights sporting the holy red cross laughed at that, his blue eyes set on Kristan.

— _"__Given today's demonstration, I guess I know who it the most qualified for such a task."_

— _"__I'll go," _he confirmed.

Disappointed, Lucie let her arm drop from the fencing instructor.

— _"__Wow, you know how to hunt? Can I come with you? I'd like to learn"_

Kristan froze. Beside hunting, he'd probably go scouting as well, and he didn't take apprentices to do so. They'd just be a hindrance. How do you refuse a girl without having to deal with the puppy eyes? He didn't miss the slight roll of Frances' eyes before she addressed Lucie.

— "Don't," she told her. "He needs all the stealth he can get if he wants to catch anything in this forsaken place."

— "Uh?"

Lucie turned to Frances with a blank face. Kristan took his cue to fetch his bow, disappearing in the forest in the blink of an eye. The trees and bushes covered his tracks instantly, and he plunged into the greenery. Behind him, he heard Frances's low voice explaining her meaning to a dumbfounded engineer.

— _"__I said there probably won't there much to eat in High-Languedoc, we're not in the Middle Ages anymore."_

The voices died as he progressed further, dodging bushes, avoiding leaves on the ground to prevent his feet from echoing in the forest. All sorts of smells and noises greeted him, the slight scuffle of mice and lizards, the smell of slightly dampened ground in the lower areas, the faint breeze playing with his hair. Lost in the moment, Kristan let his senses overcome his mind, and reverted into the predator he'd been fifteen hundred years prior. Walking in a trance, he roamed the countryside, invisible to the world as his fingers clutched his bow. Birds didn't even fly from their perch as he passed, a shadow among the stretching shadows of the evening, and suddenly a piercing cry rose in the air. As a reflex, Kristan extended his hand, and waited. But no one came. Sighing, he wondered at the significance of it all when an image came to his mind. A beautiful hawk sat on his gloved forearm, nibbling at his finger in a gesture of affection. Kristan smiled; how he'd loved that Hawk, its soft feathers under his calloussed hands, and the gentle affection of a fellow lethal companion. Lady Hawk had watched over him without judging him. Not unlike Frances had done in the latest days of his past life.

The scout resumed his patrol then, the ghost a smile gracing his lips as he delved deeper and deeper into the forest. His feet traced a pattern at once assimilated in his mind, sketching a rough map of the surrounding area. After an hour or so, he knew which competitor team camped where, which had been assaulted by others as they settled for the night, and where the valleys and hills had seen no trace of human presence yet. After spotting a rabbit, and missing his shot, much to his frustration, Kristan decided to retreat. By now, darkness fell upon the landscape like a blanket, and he feared he would get lost. But his inner self knew better, for very soon, he could hear the voices of his peers at they played a game of dice. As he emerged from the forest, he spotted a great wall, stretching as far as his eyes could see, blanketed into a thick layer of snow. A strange wave of relief hit him, as he leant forward to pat at his faithful mount.

Kristan blinked, the white fluffy clouds of snow disappearing, replaced by the flames of the quiet campfire. The glow set fire to Frances' hair who faced the forest, on the other side of the hearth. The little fairy. She was silently laughing at his fellow knights' antics, her quiet voice recounting a story from old. Kristan's silent footsteps didn't alert his companions of his return, hidden in the shadows as he listened.

— _"__He could throw a blade with such precision that his knife embedded itself in the hilt of another."_

— _"__Wow. Who was he?" _exclaimed Lucie, always eager.

Frances' hazel eyes got lost for a second, and when they refocused, they were set on his spot in the shadows. This particular smile lit her face, seemingly at the memory, but Kristan knew it was addressed to him. Several times today, he'd seen it on her face, as if she was overjoyed to see him, but held back too many secrets.

— _"__A Sarmatian knight"_

Kristan's breath caught. Sarmatia. It rang a bell, deep down in the pit of his stomach. Pascal, a fellow crusader from the company, lifted a white eyebrow.

— _"__A what?"_

— _"__You know, these people that the fucking Romans made slaves of just before their empire crumbled to dust. They lived around Mongolia, or Kazakhstan I don't remember exactly."_

There was hatred in her voice, a deep-rooted anger that fuelled his own. Death, injustice, families torn apart. Images from a past long gone assaulted him without mercy, hurting him, filling him with a rage he didn't know he could summon. Panting heavily, Kristan missed a step, sending a few rocks flying below his left boot. Aurélien jumped out of his skin at seeing him so close.

— _"Kristan! Holy cow, you startled me!"_

The fencing instructor exhaled slowly, trying to ease the stress and regain his composure.

— _"Sorry"_

Pascal, the white-haired crusader, gestured to his empty hands.

— _"So, no catch?"_

— _"No. I saw a rabbit but missed it. Sorry"_

— "Is that an apology I hear?"

Frances' surprised expression unsettled him, and he replied with little tact.

— "Yes. I failed at bringing food, and I've been raised by very polite parents."

Colour drained from her face, a look of longing crossing her features. Something was at the tip of her tongue, something she wanted to explain. Kristan winced at his own anger; his heart and mind were all over the place. At last, she spoke, her voice strained.

— "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. In fact, I'm surprised you even managed to see a rabbit with all those humans scattered around the land. Poor things must be trembling in their burrows with our racket"

Pascal's blue eyes passed from his friend to the redhead, failing at understanding their English conversation, but spotting the tension. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

— _"No need to get riled up Kris, we've managed wheat and bean stew, and there's some sausage left. There, have a seat_"

Kristan settled on a log beside his comrade, accepting the bowl of stew as he carefully laid his bow on the ground. Unsettled by their recent interaction, Kristan was relieved when Frances addressed him without animosity.

— "Did you see anything else of interest while scouting?"

So she knew he'd been scouting. To this, Kristan could only start his report. Concise, sketching the landscape in the dirt as he drew the land by heart, pointing the other's camps on his makeshift map. The other's face would have been comical had he paid a little attention; their eyes wide as they took in the tremendous amount of information he had gathered as they played dice. He missed Frances' smug smile as well – the lady amused to see how much of a scout he still was – before she started asking very precise questions on the landscape and the position of the others. It was a war council, and nothing less. In the end, Kristan sighed with regret as he laid his bowl on the floor, his finger pointing at a desert area.

— "I couldn't pass beyond that ridge. It was getting too dark for me to go there."

— "Would have been easier with a Hawk, right?"

Kristan's jaw went slack with the implication, his eyes instantly finding hers. She knew of the Hawk. Curiously, Frances' jab went unnoticed as his fellow crusaders laughed heartily at her 'jest'. Another of his medieval friends clapped him on the back.

— _"I doubt any of the other teams can hold a candle to your work. We've got a mighty scout indeed."_

— "The very best," came Frances' mutter.

Lucie popped up beside him, her wide blue eyes drinking his sight. Damn, the fan girl was back, and this scouting report didn't help his case. Maybe he should revert to being an accountant, after all. The petite engineer smiled at him:

— _"In my opinion, no one has done it at all. We'll be able to use this tomorrow."_

Kristan nodded, feeling uneasy. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he felt like his failure at scouting further could cost them their lives. His rational brain, though, was laughing about his unbidden stress; it was just game. Frances appeared by his side, kneeling to point at his empty bowl. A peace offering for her earlier comment.

— "I'll wash this in the stream and return it to Pascal," she said quietly.

The scout thanked her bashfully; he'd been short with her. She addressed him a shy smile before retrieving his bowl while his eyes roamed over her tight fitting armour. The shoulder plates were intricately carved with patterns of leaves and trees, the leather thick and sturdy. There were carefully mended bumps and slices in places, probably the token of practices gone wrong with a real blade. A nasty one, in particular, ran deep alongside her back. Had she got hurt? Her upper arms were clad in multiple plates articulated to give her ease of movement. Some of them had been replaced, the leather lighter and devoid of any carving. And then, as his eyes travelled upwards, he spotted it; his breath caught in his throat, his mind going blank. His stomach lurched, as if he'd just received a punch, and Kristan blinked. Frances stood, leaving with his bowl. But all that he could remember were the two sets of holes in her shoulder piece. The claws of a bird. Lady Hawk?

* * *

[1] The base of Cheyenne Mountain that runs the Stargate program


	5. Chapter 5 - Melenwë's warning

**_Hey, this is to make up for the slow burn... _****_ Special gift for Tobi. I wonder where my faithful Koba has gone ? For those who have read Innocence's journey, we find Melenwë again here (Formerly Frances). Hopefully, you have read the last chapter of 'All Hail to the King'. The explanation is there as well. Cheers to you all._**

Frances smiled as she recognized Melenwë's[1] chambers at once, the warm breeze of Ithilien playing with the ethereal fabric of the curtains. For four years, the clones had met in dreams, using the connexion of their common soul to exchange their respective experiences in both worlds. It was both unsettling and exhilarating for Frances to keep in touch with her clone, to see her life unfold as a princess of Greenwood, and to meet she and Legolas's child. It had been a tremendous help in mourning her lost love with Legolas, to know that he was safe and happy with a clone of herself, as if she had handed him over Melenwë for safekeeping. Both women had grown apart from the original Frances, both of them in a different way. Melenwë was more regal, more elvish than ever, kind hearted and gentle, diplomatic yet so bright. She hardly ever sported traces of fatigue or unease such was her way of life; the young woman thrived in middle earth, her integration close to complete now that they had settled in Ithlilien. Frances, on the other hand, had grown to be a formidable fighter and planner. More missions on behalf of the Valar had forged her character, and hardened it, and her friendship with the SG team had sent her in many dire situations.

Frances smiled as she spotted the princess of Greenwood, stepping forward to embrace her. Melenwë wore a flurry of transparent night robes, making her look like an angel. Her hair danced about her face as she smiled at her fiery counterpart. But a glint of warning shone in her eyes. Frances, though, was too excited to heed it.

— "Suilad"

Melenwë greeted her the elvish way, with a hand over her heart.

— "Mae Govanen, Frances."

Before the princess could even open her mouth, Frances was babbling.

— "Something extraordinary happened today ! Something you'll never believe ! Tristan has returned"

Melenwë shot her a shocked look.

— "Tristan. The scout, Tristan ?"

— "Yes. The one and only ! Oh Melenwë, if you could see him. His soul is so bright now, it's like he was drained from the darkness that plagued him !"

Stunned, the princess sagged on her bed, crumpling the immaculate cover as she sat. And then, a smile lit up her glowing face, happiness radiating from her in waves.

— "How is this even possible?"

— "I don't know. Reincarnation? I'm not sure how much he remembers, but I think he had some ideas about the past"

Frances suddenly froze, remembering Daniel's words last winter. As a former ascended being, the archeologist held a few souvenirs of his time up there. And he had revealed, in not so many words, that someone had been watching over during the course of her travels. It could only be him ! Now she knew that Tristan had kept the promise uttered with his dying breath, and the thought send her mind into turmoil.

— "Of course, Melenwë ! Of course, Daniel said so !"

— "What did he say ?"

— "He said someone had been watching over me as I travelled through time. Someone I would meet again"

Melenwë's countenance brightened.

— "Did he recognize you ?"

— "He called me 'tempore custodem', the Keeper of Time, in latin"

A playful laugh answered her statement.

— "Yes, I know what it means. I may not be proficient in latin, but still can grasp this particular meaning"

A wicked smile adorned Frances' features. Even Melenwë's manner of speech was greatly influenced by her elvish husband. The young princess' eyes glazed over, refusing to shed tears on such a happy event. But the moisture in her gaze was testimony to the bleeding gash Tristan had left when he died. They'd lived through it both, his demise predating their separation as two different clones, before Melenwë was sent back to middle earth.

— "It is extraordinary, Frances. I wish you happiness, you deserve it so !"

The young woman's eyebrows hit her hairline.

— "Uh? But…"

The princess cut her with such authority that Frances' mouth snapped shut. How unfair was it, to be intimidated by oneself ? Melenwë certainly suffered no argument in the colony of Ithilien, and she had gained even more presence now that she was a mother.

— "Hush. We will have this conversation later. I came to warn you, and time is short"

— "Damn, another end of the world event? Can't I get a break ?"

Melenwë sighed, feeling bad for her counterpart. She'd had the easy end of the bargain, getting married to her beloved prince and setting the colony. Granted, Thranduil had been quite a handful, and middle earth wasn't without its challenges. Especially after the latest war against the dark elves seeking revenge after Sauron's death. But the life that Frances led was another thing altogether.

— "Some dark elves must have used the tear we made when you were called back to Arda by accident. They have followed you on earth and are looking for you. They are close, you must away at once lest your companions get killed"

Frances paused, considering the issue at end. After Melenwë's abduction by soulless elves – former followers of Sauron who ripped their souls from their bodies – two years prior, Legolas and Gimli had somehow managed to transport Frances back to middle earth, calling by accident a co-worker, and tearing the material of space in the meantime. Olórin, formerly known as Gandalf, had sorted the problem, or so they though, by sending Frances and her friend back to earth after a mighty battle in Edoras. The news of some of those zombie-elves escaping to earth was a catastrophe. The only positive point in this is that they hunted her, and no one else. Drawn to the magic of the necklace, they wouldn't harm others unless they stood in the way.

— "I thought we'd killed them all in Edoras. How many ?"

— "I'm not sure. I'm sorry, Frances. Awaken now and flee."

A vision crashed into Frances' mind. The dark elves, running into the forest, their eyes devoid of any humanity, roaming the very same landscape she'd seen the day before. She felt their need to find her, to kill her for being the instrument of Sauron's demise. She'd been dubbed as a legendary witch, the woman who had disappeared at the fall of their master in a great blue light. Some even said she'd taken the Dark Lord herself into oblivion; the dark elves wanted their souls, they wanted to get back to their master and were drawn to the magic pulsing in the gem of the necklace. They were closing in, the necklace's influence stronger now. Just a few leagues away, and they'd be complete again ! The faint light of dawn was showing behind the hills. Soon. They'd get the witch, and their master back.

Frances jerked awake, her breath short. A dozen, at least ! Cold sweat trickled in her back at the realization; she was going to die ! Alone against a dozen elves, she stood no chance at all. Mayhap she'd be able to take a few of them with her bow before she fell. At least, she could draw them away from the others. From Tristan, who had a second chance at living. Her eyes searched for him among the sleeping LARP players, failing at identifying him. A controlled movement called her attention then, and Frances recognized the scout, sitting on a rock, wide awake. He regarded her curiously, the knife interrupted in the slicing of his apple. Had the situation not been so dire, Frances would have laughed her head off at the sight. Tristan, eating his apple in front of the dying embers, like he used to do fifteen hundred years ago. He had offered to take the morning watch, completely oblivious that he only reverted into old habits. She'd fallen asleep smiling at the similarities between his former self and his present self. Now, she only felt like crying.

Frances stood silently, gathering her belongings in haste under the weight of his stare. Praying that he wouldn't ask what she was doing, that he would let her go. Unlike his stubborn self at Badon Hill. How painfully ironic! To find him again, only to be ripped away from life the moment after. How she longed to talk to him, to tell him what a great companion he'd been before his life brutally ended, how she'd mourned his absence. But there was no time left. Too late. Blinking her tears away, Frances faced him, fully garbed. She knew she should have leapt away, disappearing under the trees without a backward glance. But she needed to say goodbye. One last moment, to face him, to relish in his newfound light before hers extinguished forever.

Kristan stood, discarding his apple, a gleam of concern in his eyes. Dawn was coming, bathing the scene in an eerie light. He loved it, this time of day when the world still slept and he could melt in the shadows. But today, there was no peace to be found as Frances gathered her belongings. Her gestures were frantic, terrified even. Posture tense, hands shaking, she struggled with the buckles of her quiver for a moment too long, her gaze firmly set on the ground. And when she came to him, her hazel eyes burdened with grief, he saw the look of resignation on her face, something akin to a goodbye.

— "I … I wanted to say… I have missed you, terribly."

Kristan's heart skipped a beat at her admittance. She knew him ! she recognized him ! At last, he wouldn't tread in the dark anymore. His body nearly leapt forward to embrace her, but her next words stopped him"

— "I have to go. I'm sorry"

And she meant every word as she strode to the forest behind them. In shock, Kristan watched her for a few seconds before realising that his little fairy was going to disappear once more. He caught up in a few strides, grabbing her elbow and pulling deftly, turning her around.

— "Where are you going?"

It was more diplomatic than the 'explain' that Tristan would have said. Yet, the young woman shook her head, her eyes lowered to the path.

— "It is dangerous if I stay. I must go away from you all"

— "This is insane !"

Hearing the rise of his voice, Frances' hand gripped his forearm tightly.

— "I know. Believe me, I wish it was otherwise, but there are people coming after me. You are in danger, all of you"

What could have happened, between yesterday evening and now, to set her in such a panicked state ? Either she was completely crazy, either she'd have a lot of explaining to do. Anyway, Kristan was in no mood to watch her ran away from him. Fifteen years he'd waited to find her, he was not about to let her slip through his fingers now ! He could see the fear in her eyes, the desperation as well. She truly thought she was going to be attacked, to hell if he left her to face this threat alone ! Before he could open his mouth, she shushed him.

— "I'll try to sort this out, it will be all right"

Kristan watched as her face crumbled, her eyes wide with terror.

— "You are a very bad liar"

The young woman snorted, and tried to pull free but Kristan wouldn't let go, his fingers locked.

— "I know, I've never been a good liar. Time is short, Kristan. You must let go"

Let go of her arm, let go of her existence, let go of her presence beside him. Let her die. This is what she asked of him. Kristan shook his head, the words caught in his throat, his fingers tightly woven around her elbow. There was no way in hell! Eventually, his voice came back, and he stated the obvious.

— "I'll come with you"

— "No !"

Her cry of anguish caught him off guard, the shaking of her hand more pronounced. His statement, meant for help, had obviously increased her distress tenfold.

— "I can protect you"

Frances huffed, as if talking to a lifelong friend being stubborn. This argument felt so familiar, and for a moment, he felt the rough fabric of a leather vest upon his back, a distressed Frances clad in a burgundy dress facing him, a waterfall of fire swaying upon her collarbone. The same expression upon her face, the same despair in her eyes.

— "I don't want you to. Not this time", she said.

Not this time; what was she talking about ? When ? Kristan frowned, unsure about what he'd just seen. But the vision was gone, and the woman was tugging at his arm.

— "Why ?"

Her eyes were pleading as she said:

— "You are pure. I don't want your soul to be tainted for me"

Kristan snorted, what was the blasted woman rambling about ?

— "I'm hardly pure !"

— "You've never killed before !"

Kristan's heart stopped beating. Death. Is that what she was about to bestow upon her enemies ? Was she a murderer ? His grip loosened on her arm in surprise, his eyes searching for the duplicity, the madness that should have lingered in her gaze had she been a psychopath. He found nothing but regret, and fear.

— "Kill ?" he whispered.

Frances nodded, her features somber.

— "Yes. They come to kill me. It is too late to call the police, they'd never make it in time. They'll massacre the people that stand in their way. Please, Tristan. Please. This is your second chance, do not waste it on me"

Was he loosing his mind, or had she called him Tristan ? But more importantly, what of those enemies ?

— "Who are they ?", he asked.

An exasperated sigh was her answer as she tugged on her sleeve to slacken his hold. The urgency in her voice was rising.

— "Dark people. There's no time for this ! I must go, and I don't want to hurt you"

Kristan snorted – as if she could hurt him ! – and his fingers tightened on her forearm, intend on conveying his message. He was stronger, a better archer and a better fighter.

— "I won't let you go alone"

The despair that shone in her eyes caught him of guard; tears were welling fast and the wiped them away with her sleeve.

— "Damnit Tristan ! I will not watch you die again!"

Again. She's said again. Shocked, the young man didn't get the time to reflect on her revelation, for she quickly twisted his hold and ripped her arm away, shoving him a few feet back with a mighty push. Damn, she was fast, and skilled in hand to hand combat. Mere seconds later, she took off at full run.

— "Shit!" he exclaimed.

Kristan ran back to camp, getting his bow and arrows – his rational mind sniggering at his credulity – and darted back to the woods. By the time he hit the treeline, Frances had disappeared in the shadows. Tristan, she had called him. The man who had died. This is who he was, a millenia ago, and she'd been there to witness his death. Was she, as well, living a second life ? She seemed to remember more than he did. Surrendering his will to the memories, his instinct took over, and very soon, the scout emerged and found her tracks. And then, he was running as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Up ahead, Frances ran as is the devil was tailing her. Except that the enemy was no devil, only soulless elves. And that the man tailing her was in the hell of a shape ! How in the world could Kristan follow her trail and run so fast at the same time ? He probably had more memories of his past life than she though, and the guy was relentless. They'd been running full speed for fifteen minutes already, and she couldn't find a way to shake him of her trail. Leaping over dead trees, climbing through rocks and outcrops, changing directions. Nothing deterred him. She hoped she'd read correctly Kristan's maps from yesterday and let her stalkers far away from any other LARP group. There was no voice in the air, no other sound that her heavy panting. Sweat trickled down her back and fell upon her brow; Frances wiped it away with her forearm, using the little space between bracer and shoulder pads where the tunic was accessible. Silent, she tucked her braid away into her back, below the plastron, so that it did not get caught in the fight.

The elves were closing in, she could feel them, in the distance. The rush of leaves in the morning silence, and the impending sense of doom that befell her shoulders. In mere moments, they'd be upon her… and Kristan would be caught in the fight without even a sword to defend himself. For if Frances never separated from hers, the fencing instructor only carried his LARP useless weapon. The young woman sighed, and stopped in her tracks when she spotted the right tree. There, they'd make their stand. Since danger was going to find Kristan, it was up to her, now to protect him. How ironic, that the situation would be reversed so ! For fifteen hundred years ago, he'd been the one with the most experience, the one watching her back, the one with a mind so hardened that nothing unfazed him. But Kristan was now an innocent man, a man who'd never fought, never killed.

Kristan's footsteps were heavier than usual as he caught up with her, his face flushed, his blondish hair in all sorts of disarrays. Had the situation been different, Frances would have smiled at that. It suited him, this untamable mop of hair that fell above his eyes more often that not. A little reminder of the fearless knight. But now, there was no time to loose. Before he could even utter a word, she commanded:

— "Climb in that tree and prepare your bow. We'll make our stand here"

The tall man seemed to consider her strategy, and nodded his assent. Frances trailed behind him, her eyes scanning the surrounding area, secretly impressed that he had not argued her point. If he thought her crazy; he didn't say. The shuffle of leaves was the only indication that Kristan had hoisted himself up in the giant tree. Despite his heavy armor – Thank God he'd kept it on at night ! – the man used his lean physique to climb. His moves were graceful, yet different from Legolas. More powerful, because he had his own weight to pull up, more forceful as well. Then, he stopped on a high branch, and waited for her to join him. Frances jumped, hauling herself up after him in the blink of an eye. She'd spent her childhood in trees, and even more time climbing them ever since her adventures on middle earth. The only difficulty was the bow on her back, preventing her from twisting around as it got caught in small branches.

As she came level with Kristan, she urged him to go higher up, and he complied without questions. Then, she turned her flushed face to him, and exhaled slowly. Crippling fear took hold in the pit of her stomach; she was so frightened that something would happen to him by her fault. And death seemed close enough for both of them; the odds were bad. Her only advantage, as of now, was that she knew that the absence of soul in the dark elves impaired their capacities. As if this fundamental missing part made them zombies. She'd fought them before, she knew that she could outsmart them in battle. She needed to be unpredictable so that they couldn't analyse and predict her patterns. A little comfort, given than their lightness of feet and the hundred years of practice they had, if not thousands.

— "No matter what happens, stay in that tree. Ok ?"

— "I won't make promises"

His voice was level, yet familiar, his eyes hard. For a moment, it was Tristan she saw before he lunged into battle.

— "Listen. Those creatures are not human. Their souls have been ripped from their bodies, they seek solace and think that killing me will provide it for them"

— "Why ?"

Kristan's eyes flickered, his lips tightening.

— "Too complicated to explain now"

— "Will it work, to get their souls back?"

Trust Kristan to ask the right questions.

— "No. It won't. The point is, that killing them is a mercy, a way to be reunited with their souls. Or so I hope. Be careful, they are light and quick, but not too intelligent. Don't hesitate, for they won't. Use that bow of yours, and do not set a fucking foot on the ground"

Kristan nodded, his lips set in a grim line. Frances was surprised by his acceptance; he took her incredible story in stride. Any other man would have argued. The young lady extracted her bow - Tristan's bow ! - and pulled the quiver a little higher on her back. Her fingers left a smudge of darkened powder on the shaft of her first bolt, probably dirt from the tree trunk. And then, she turned to Kristan who had settled comfortably in a higher branch, her hand reaching for him. The man sent her a puzzled look when she came closer and touched his cheek. Kristan didn't flinch, albeit she could see his surprise as her hand made contact. Her fingers tingled as they touched his soft skin, and his grey eyes never left hers as she smeared his cheekbones with a line of dirt on either side of his face. It was Tristan she needed right now. She hoped the makeshift Sarmatian tattoos would channel him back, and get the attention of whomever had protected him at the wall.

— "May your God watch over you, and the Valar over us both"

* * *

[1] for those who didn't read Innocence's journey; Frances was cloned after her mission in middle earth. The Frances that stayed in middle earth got married to Legolas, and changed her name to Melenwë. They kept a connexion and can communicate through their dreams.


	6. Chapter 6 - Dark Elves

**_Hey Koba, glad to hear from you. I'm sad you found Frances petty, she's in fact hoping to read Kristan to see whether he has memories or not (without breaking down), and trying to avoid Lucie's attention at the same time. It's a fine line she's been walking on, but there is no hostility. Maybe I wrote it wrong. Anyway, you made me laugh so much with your tree hanger comment! And yes, his sword has been saved. He should get it back, eventually. Then we'll have out Tristan in full battle mode, sword and bow _****_ and a lot, lot lot of discussions._**

**_Ans yes, life, especially in September, is busy. I can relate to that, especially since I'm super late on many chapters. Leelee, is you read this, forgive me!_**

**_Yeah, I've been researching a lot on armours and such. No hands on, no. But my husband knows everything there is to know about armours and weapons so I got pretty good info _****_ Bless him. _**

**_This chapter has been a lot of work; I have trouble with battle scenes. I'm more suited for fluff hehehe. I hope you appreciate it._**

They were here, several lean silhouettes closing in. As they approached, meeting the rising sunrays, Kristan started. Handsome features but totally foreign to humanity, almost ethereal, a strange glow radiating under their skin, some sort of dark light, lean bodies and graceful movements. Wild cats, their eyes devoid of emotions, they came like an army of deadened beings to rip their hearts out. For a moment, Kristan tightened his hold on the trunk, regret filling his mind. He should never have come, he should have listened to her! Watching death in the eyes as it closed upon him, Kristan realised how badly he wanted to live. He couldn't quite believe it though, that his life would be in such danger in the 21st century. Skirmishes and battles with bows and arrows were of another time. If Frances was not crazy, it wasn't good news; those people came to kill her. He could feel it in the air, smell it as the breeze rustled the leaves around them. He understood now, what she had tried to tell him. Slay, or be slain. Damn, he wasn't ready to die. Not now! His eyes had no trouble seeing, but his heart still lingered on a thought of sanity. Could this person be human? Disguised humans? Was he the one crazy for believing her? Could this be part of the game? A twisted scenario from the Role Play to which Frances was an accomplice?

The noise of a cord pulled taut called his attention. An arrow whizzed out of the tree, the familiar twang singing its release. A cry escaped a set of perfect lips as a man went down on the forest. The bolt protruded from his chest, blood flowing on his tunic, staining the floor with its crimson flow. Kristan stared at his paling face, at the hands that clawed at his breast, trembling in shock. His stomach clenched painfully, searching to expel its content. Death. There. Frances had killed a man. Beside him, she notched another arrow, unblinking, her face focused. She did not acknowledge him as the dark elves started running in their direction. Another shot, missing the heart, but embedding itself in a shoulder. Many arrows followed, and Kristan couldn't tear his eyes away from the makeshift battlefield. His grip tightened on his bow, knuckles white from the strain, and yet he couldn't find the courage to shoot. To kill. No. He wasn't this man anymore. He understood, now, why Frances refused his presence.

Many enemies fell, and yet, at least eight of them still stood. As they reached for the tree, Frances left her quiver in his trembling hands and jumped down without sparing him a glance. From branch to branch she went, an agile figure to meet the prowling elf that climbed the trunk. He moved with liquid grace, unfazed by the young fury, enthralled by her sight in a disturbing manner. Frances swung herself on a branch, her feet colliding with the elf with such force that he stumbled down. Then she hopped, fast and strong, her feet landing in the carpet of leaves. Faster than it took for him to blink, her long blade was out. Kristan watched, fascinated, his breath short. Would the masquerade stop now? Would they yield, and laugh, and tell him it was just a hoax and get back to camp, the dead elves removing the arrows protruding from their bodies?

The ring of steel filled the air, all of them unsheathing a sword of similar design to Frances'. And then, they attacked, slicing with so much rage that the first blade embedded itself in the trunk. Alarm bells rang in his mind, the urge to join her unbearable. He should be protecting her, he should be fighting by her side! The memory of what he used to be screamed at him to jump down, but the sanity of his modern mind refused to partake in such slaughter. And somehow, for the first time, he wondered if he would be up to the task. Her opponents were frightfully fast, and more than proficient with their blade. Frantic, his eyes followed Frances as she leapt aside, avoiding the first hit, catching her opponent's back. A smart move executed with flawless technique. Despite his state of panic, he acknowledged out wrong he'd been; she clearly was a better fighter than he.

Kristan's breath hitched, his fingers rigid against the quiver she'd left behind. Below them, her opponent yelled in agony as the others sprang forth, their moves foreign to his eyes, but well practised. Their swings were precise, their blows uncontained, their wrath intense. Frances danced about the scene, jumping, swinging, ducking at such speed that it was surreal. Seven against one; a hopeless battle. She'd managed to use the terrain to keep them in line, but soon enough, she would be surrounded, and dead. It was a miracle that she still drew breath. A sudden yelp echoed on the ground as she hissed, her features pained, her left leg unsteady.

Anger rose in Kristan throat, a blinding hot rage that called the warrior forth. It was high time for Tristan to show his face! Without thinking, he retrieved his bow and released his first arrow. Twang. An elf fell, just in time; his blade was about to decapitate her. It gave her the little time she needed to regain her footing. Kristan clenched his jaw, pushing away the shock of his actions – he'd nearly left her to die! And killed a man … elf – as another arrow flew, and yet another. Very soon, the quiver was empty. The young man cursed as more silhouettes emerged from the top of the hill. Two of the dark elves were still battling Frances; she was using one of their swords to protect her left side. A clever idea, even if it seemed quite obvious that she was nowhere ambidextrous like Lancelot had been.

Lancelot, his brothers. What he would give to have them by his side today! Frances' left arm didn't move much, but the steel and the steadiness of her grip reduced her exposure as her elvish blade slashed and parried with incredible efficiency. Always in movement, unpredictable, Frances offered no openings as she sliced mercilessly at her enemies. The sword seemed made for her, and they performed, together, a deadly dance. But it would not suffice. Her opponents were dreadfully fast, and light on their feet. They never stumbled, never fell even as she kicked them with elbows and feet. And five more elves were closing in. His arrows were spent. In mere moments, he would witness the fatal blow, and watch her body as it fell, lifeless, to the littered ground.

Kristan swallowed the fear, choosing instead to rely on adrenalin, as he flung himself from the tree. Her anguished cry echoed in the forest as he landed on the ground, retrieving a blade on the first fallen elf. His ever-watchful eyes refused to linger on the cadaver, his spirit steeling himself for what was to come. He knew the heartache of being a killer, the feeling had never really left his bones. The sword felt fantastic in his hand, a memory of his Sarmatian dao now flooding his mind. The balance, the weight, the maniabilty; it felt so similar. Kristan was ready, and he launched himself forward. He'd never been one for battle cries, choosing to use stealth as he felled his foes. That was it, the moment of truth. To kill or be killed.

His first opponent bore long dark hair tied up in braids over his ears. His appearance was that of a model; his eyes, though, were a pit of endless darkness. His enemy's high swing caught Kristan off guard and he cursed at his distraction, lifting his blade a tad too late, merely missing decapitation. So this was the game they wanted to play, uh? The fencing instructor counterattacked swiftly, his thrust aiming to pierce his armpit. His sword was quickly chased away and Kristan cursed at the speed of those soulless elves. As he lost his balance, the elf attacked him once more, his blade held high with the same move he'd pulled the first time. A dire mistake, for Kristan was ready. Regaining his footing, he twisted around, deviating the blade to the other side. His quick parry surprised his opponent, for instead of pushing away, Kristan stepped forward to meet him. All it took was a mighty blow from the hilt of his sword into the nose to send the elf sprawling to the floor.

Stunned, the soulless creature backed down, his gaze curiously empty in the face of death. His inner light seemed to darken, unsettlingly dancing under his skin. Kristan blinked. His enemy was at his mercy, and yet, he couldn't push himself to deal the killing blow. Arms held high, blade at the ready, Kristan flinched as his eyes met the dark elf. He was entranced by the inhuman beauty as much as by the corrupted feel of his breath. Frances' reminder screamed at the back of his mind. 'Don't hesitate.' But it was too late. A dagger flew into his opponent's hands as he sprang forward. Startled by the sudden move, Kristan lowered his sword with all his might. The painful sting of cut flesh wasn't enough to prevent the blow from dipping into the elf's neck. Crimson blood flowed as his enemy crumbled. Kristan fell to his knees, cursing the painful throb in his shoulder. With a swift gesture he removed the dagger embedded above his clavicle. The blade had penetrated between two of his metal plates, partially slowed by the thick leather. Without the armour, it would have punctured one of the main arteries, bringing a swift death.

Breathing heavily, Kristan stepped up, wincing at the nasty sting that radiated in his upper chest. He'd have to fight one-handed; the blade was light enough to allow it. He welcomed the pain, the throb calling forth a blast of memories of distant battlefields. Anger followed, a hot, white rage coursing through his veins. His mind summoned a shield of indifference, his body pumping adrenalin, his whole being reminding past times when his life was at stake. Tristan was ready to take over once more, his modern counterpart more than eager to surrender control. Without hesitation, the fencing instructor jumped back into the fray, yelling a battle cry to distract the two opponents Frances was keeping at bay. Two of the elves turned to him, dark eyes gleaming with a sadistic light. Kristan smiled; he knew their weaknesses, he knew their strength. At last, the fight evened out.

Frances was struggling. The only thing that kept her alive, aside from her extensive training in all the places of the universe, was the lack of wit of her opponents. She'd fought them once, on Arda, beside Aragorn and Legolas. Her beloved elf had explained, then, that their souls had been ripped away by Sauron and the effect of this loss on their fighting abilities. The Dark elves tended to use the same moves over and over again, as if, by losing their souls, they'd also lost their ability to reason. The force of habit, or centuries of training, gave a dangerous edge to their blows. Their physical abilities were not impaired, their quickness unmatched, their moves graceful and sometimes, impossible for a human. Yet, the need that flowed in their veins, the rage that drew them diminished their cunning. It was her only true advantage as she kept taking them off guard. Frances knew that she needed to reach the blissful state of mediation she had discovered in medieval Japan[1]; it would alight her blade with the love of the Valar, and allow her to pierce through their weapons. When the blade was inflamed, it could cut through anything. But at the moment, she was struggling to stand her ground and avoid being skewered. There simply was no time to find this peace in her inner self lest she wanted to die.

Hope dwindled as another set of dark elves jumped into the fray. She could barely keep her two opponents at bay. Realisation crept in; she was going to die. She prayed that Kristan would keep clear, and stay hidden. Maybe, if they got her, the elves wouldn't attack him. Her calf ached, but the flow of blood had stopped already. A flesh wound. Block, duck, spin, twirl. A blade passed mere inches of her face while another tore at her shoulder piece once more, leaving a trail of blood in her exposed back. Damn it hurt like bitch! Stupid, stupid! She needed to move faster. The wheezing of an arrow called her attention, and her opponent – one second from separating her neck from her shoulders – fell with a thud. Panting heavily, Frances took advantage of that little space of freedom to fall the second elf behind her back. More bodies fell, some close, some further away. Frances' heart leapt into her throat; Kristan had sold his position now, and saved her life doing so. A surge of gratefulness seized her heart, soon replaced by a nagging worry. The breaking of a dead branch informed her that Kristan had jumped from the tree.

— "No!" she yelled.

There was no time! She couldn't protect him, for she was surrounded anew. If she died, they'd go after him. A wave of determination washed over her, pumping adrenalin in her veins. He'd saved her life, it was now up to her to return the favour. With renewed vigour, Frances decided to change the tide of this battle by using her hand-to-hand training. It was dangerous, but dreadfully efficient, provided you could come close enough. Releasing her left sword, Frances extracted the dagger from her boot and charged a dark elf. In a swift move, she'd passed below his guard, and stabbed him in the chest. Surprised etched on his face as he fell forward. Frances braced his failing body to squash it into another elf and, using the momentum, lacerated the flesh of her opponent just above the waist. Both elves stumbled to the floor as she jumped on the back of another one whose blade would have nicked Kristan's back.

Dark elf and lady rolled painfully on the floor, Frances crying out as rocks grazed her cheeks and stabbed at her hips. Her dagger was deflected by a mighty punch to her wrist, and the young woman rolled away from her latest opponent, sword in hand. Her left hand throbbed painfully, unable to hold a weapon. She bit her lip, swallowing the pain. The dark elf let his eye roam over her with a smirk, the void of his irises creating goosebumps along her spine. Frances raised her sword, panting heavily, sweat and dust sticking at her brow. She prayed to the Valar, asked for Glorfindel's strength to help her inflame the blade. Her attempt failed; her heart and attention were elsewhere, for behind her opponent, Kristan was struggling. And then, he was shoved against the tree. A mighty crack echoed in the woods as his blondish head collided violently with the rough bark. His tall frame slumped, eyes glazed over by the shock.

Frances' shark intake of breath was enough for the dark elf facing her to push his advantage. Before she could rush to Kristan's aid, her opponent's sword was swinging at her. The first blow nearly tore the sword from her grip, startling her with its power. Frances willed her attention back to her own fight as dread seized her chest in its frozen claws. The blade came swinging again, a swift blow to the right, another one aiming at her knees. Damn that elf! Fast and efficient; he wanted her head more than anything else in the universe! Frances sneered, baring her teeth as anger overtook her. And then she was blocking blow for blow with practised moves, calling forth her countless hours of training in Japan to prevent any openings. How far she'd come from her first lessons with Aragorn in Rivendell! A deadly dance it was, a dance with a countdown for the other elf was advancing on Kristan, his prone form slouched again the tree. It was just a quick peek; it proved a mistake. Her opponent's blade would have sunk in her neck had a startled cry not warned her beforehand. The reflex had her roll forward, barely missing the blow, and gaining a little momentum to put some space between her vicious attacker and herself. Only half a second, but it was enough. Enough for her to catch Kristan's gaze as his attacker fell in a heap, a dagger embedded in his throat.

Relief flooded her like a benevolent tsunami, bringing forth the love she felt for the universe and its miracles, the love this man. He was alive! A moment she was sure she was losing him, a mere breath later he had triumphed. Tristan one day, Tristan forever! There were no words to describe the heat that swarmed her body, the light that flooded through her heart as she held his gaze. Her whole body seemed to hum, her blood wanted to sing, to dance with joy. Brightness enveloped her, and when she stood, wary, but happy, her blade was channelling a bright light. The light of the sun, the light of mercy, a white, pure light reflected in her eyes. With liquid grace, Frances's sword arched towards her opponent. Stunned by the unusual sight, but not yet out of action, he met her blow with a swift parry. Her weapon cut through his sword like a knife through butter, the pieces falling apart in his hands as the movement continued. Her magical blade slashed through the elf like a light sabre, Frances nearly toppling over as it met no resistance. Her opponent fell at her feet, thoroughly cloven in two pieces. And then, a white billowing smoke rose from its clothes, leaving behind the crumbled heap of fabric as the body disintegrated.

— "Hannon le[2]," came a ghostly voice.

Frances started, her blade still bright, a smile quirking her lips. Maybe now, they could regain their souls and travel to the Halls of Mandos. They were free. As quickly as she could, she sliced all fallen opponents with her blade. Some were still breathing, some struggling to stand up and resume the fight, one even was crawling to a dagger. Frances had to steel herself as she swung; it felt like killing in cold blood. One look at the forest, littered with bodies, reminded her of the battle of Amon Hen. The day they'd lost Boromir. Kristan! Cold sweat ran down her spine, the light of her blade flickering. No, she couldn't surrender to panic! This had to be done before she could get back to Kristan. Exhaling slowly, she managed to grasp the state of meditation necessary to alight the blade once more. One by one, she slashed at the bodies, bringing salvation to the poor elves trapped by Sauron. Their spirits voiced their thanks, and disappeared. Once they were all freed, the sheathed her magnificent sword, sending a prayer to the Valar, and her fervent gratitude to Glorfindel. Kristan had not moved from his slouched position, and Frances frowned. How injured was he? He probably had a concussion from the force of the blow he had sustained, what if there was internal bleeding? Panicking suddenly, the young woman leapt down the hill to crouch beside him. His eyes were closed.

— "Shit!" she yelled, cold dread settling in the pit of her stomach. "Come on Tristan, get back to me."

The young woman roamed his body quickly to check for injuries, but found nothing life threatening. No pool of blood, unlike Badon Hill. A few slices where the armour didn't protect him, a few bruises on his face, but no major gash. He'd been more proficient than she for her first battle. That man would never cease to amaze her … if he survived.

— "Come on!"

Her voice was a plea now, and she cupped his cheeks within both hands.

— "Come on Tristan. Don't do that to me, not again."

Sweat trickled down her spine, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw breath, the hole of despair opening below her very feet to swallow her whole. The memory of his battered body at Badon Hill invaded her senses. The stench of his blood, the loving gaze he'd send her as he accepted death, the untamed flow of her tears as she wept over him until she passed out from the pain. It was one of the most traumatic memories of her life. Beyond the massacre of Helm's deep, beyond the field of Pelennor, beyond anything she'd seen on her travels … and they were many. This very moment, though, had pierced her heart. Though Frances knew she wasn't thinking clearly, she couldn't help but shake his face between her hands, too afraid that he would die in her arms once more.

— "Please"

Frances bit her lip, letting go of his cheek to check his pulse. It was beating faintly, but steady. And then, his eyelids fluttered open, and she found herself transfixed by the intensity of his eyes. His pupils were dilated, the sunlight hurting him, but they held her gaze steadily. The man frowned, his low growl startling her.

— "Quit that fuss woman, you're hurting my head."

Woman. Tristan used to call her woman. Suddenly, the wave of relief crashed all her defences as tears flooded her face. Frances all but stammered as she refrained from sobbing openly.

— "You're all right. You're all right. Thank the Valar, you're all right."

It was a crazy mantra, her voice rising and falling as she repeated the same words again and again. Kristan seemed stunned, by the blow to his head or the strength of her reaction she couldn't tell. The joy she felt, though, danced through her as her hands touched his cheekbones gently. He was filthy, blood tainted hair in disarray, but the makeshift tattoos still remained. The sudden urge to kiss him senseless nearly took over, startling Frances. Where did that come from, uh?

She needed to let go, and so she did, crumbling on her ass as she wiped the tears from her eyes. The adrenalin rush was waning, her body hurt, her skin burning in many places from small cuts. Despite the discomfort, the mighty cry of her body to sit down and rest, her mind couldn't shake her away from Kristan.

His hand came to rest on her shoulder, and Frances sobered up. One last sniffle, one filthy hand wiping the tears away, staining her face with dirt, before she assessed their situation.

— "All right. You're alive. I'm alive. We need to get back to my car, and get your head checked. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Kristan addressed her a curious gaze, the grey of his eyes more intense as his pupils seemed to retract a little. His voice was smooth as silk, seemingly unaffected, his low tones sending a shudder up her spine.

— "Upper chest, above the clavicle. Bastard got between two plates and stabbed me. It is not deep. And I need an explanation"

— "You shall have it. I'll tell you on the way, right?"

Kristan seemed to consider a moment, before agreeing.

— "Deal. And we need water. You armour is covered in blood, and so is mine. There's a stream not far from here."

Frances nodded. Trust the scout to know of his location, and point out the obvious. Somewhere in this beautiful mind, Tristan lived still.

**_So. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, albeit it is mainly a fight. Frances and Kristan didn't get to fight together like in Badon Hill, too many enemies. They're both alive and relatively unharmed, which is a miracle!_**

**_I hope the references to other stories are not too confusing. The notion of Frances' blade being magical can be off-putting, especially since I haven't written the travel during which she discovers this ability. Boy, I'm going to have a hard time connecting dots and keeping things consistent! As for the zombie elves, I need to write the sequel to the Lord of the Rings story 'Innocence's journey' as well. Yey, more work for me!_**

_**I've read somewhere that 'Hannon le' is not the correct way to thank in Sindarin. If there is any LotR fan here, can you point me to the right expression please ? Takk skal du ha ! (Danish for mille merci, or thank yo very much).**_

* * *

[1] The Last Samuraï/Ruroni Kenshin

[2] Thank you, in sindarin


	7. Chapter 7 - Tell me how I died

**_Hey! To Koba; I've had your two different reviews. And you're right, Frances keeps all of her memories, even if her body does regenerate when she gets back. So far, she had learnt that feeling, and loving easily, is in her nature. No matter how much she suffers from being parted from the people she meets during her missions, she can't help loving them. So, no distancing. At this point, I'd say that the ball is in Kristan's court when it comes to deciding what he wants. He is the one with partial memory, and a personality to figure out hehe. Damn, he could be schizophrenic if he wanted to :D_**

**_You can thank Tobiramamara for this short chapter. I initially had a second part but I'm sleepy, so I'm posting the first part after its much needed edition ! The next still needs some reviewing._**

As his mind swam in dizziness, Kristan sometimes had to rely on Frances to keep him from toppling over. It was a disgrace, for a man so fit and strong, but he was human and his head hurt like bitch. Frances' injuries seemed shallower than his; she didn't complain from the strain of his weight upon her frail shoulders. Still, she hissed the few times he'd let his arm lean too strongly on the sliced skin of her upper back. The sound unnerved him. Kristan wanted nothing more than for her to leave him there, and get some help. He'd tried to plead his case; the argument was stopped short by a glare, and a single sentence.

— "We don't leave people behind."

It sounded like a rehearsed mantra borrowed from another.[1] Realising her mistake, Frances sent him a look. Behind irritation loomed fear. Just as he was about to open his mouth once more, she cut him short.

— "I am not leaving you."

— "I'm slowing you down, Frances. You would get help faster if you…"

The young woman's jaw clenched painfully.

— "Forget it! Last time I lost sight of you, you died."

There was such determination on her face, such iron in her gaze that Kristan let it go. The mention of his death had a strange effect on him, but some part of him was giddy that he would, at last, get his explanations ! And he was indeed quite glad for her loyalty, for he didn't fancy staying on his own in this goddamn forest; he'd be a sitting duck. They'd washed some of the blood at the river, drinking their fill as well, and splashing their faces with the welcome respite of cold water. Frances had extracted two chocolate bars from her bag, giving them the much-needed sugar they both craved after such a battle. Kristan had a hard time not keeling over, and they made their way through the forest little by little, their steps ridiculous compared to his usual pace. It was frustrating, but Kristan was a patient man.

As they walked, Frances started talking. That is, whenever she was not panting for breath; he knew to be a heavy man, all efficient muscles and power despite his lean constitution, and his balance was unsettled at best. Yet, the contact of her body below his, her side tucked into him felt normal. She was guiding him to safety, keeping close in case he needed it. Her strength feeding his, her determination driving him. Despite the exhaustion and the shock of the battle, Frances kept going. He had to give her that; she was sturdy, much more than he would have guessed for such a lithe frame. And stubborn. And one hell of a fighter. He would never forget the deadly danced she'd performed with her blade. Yet, despite what he had just witnessed, her stories felt so foreign, so crazy, that he wondered if he was dreaming. Fortunately, his mind was too fuzzy to question her sanity once again. And after all, it all made sense. It all clicked so consistently !

Step after step, she told him of her sword, of middle earth. Of how she'd discovered through her travels that she could turn the blade into light and cleave anything. Kristan had a million questions; questions on Arda, questions about elves, but even more so, questions about their past relationship. His mind, though, couldn't make heads or tails of the day. Images flew by as she talked, images of medieval Japan, and others of a Man-o-War. He couldn't make sense of it, swimming through heavy fog, his thoughts hardly organised, his feet struggling to keep walking. How ironic that after teaching fencing in a medieval company and participating in many tournaments, he'd sustained his first concussion. And a mighty one! His skull pulsated so much that he wondered if his head was going to fall off.

Eventually, they made it to the parking lot. Most LARP players were gone, and as soon as they caught the network, both of their phones started ringing. Frances fumbled with her bag to retrieve her keys, and led him to a bright blue Suzuki swift. Kristan couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips. The car was literally a royal blue piece of candy, all roundness and cuteness. It was funny to discover Frances' playful side expressed through her choice of car when he'd witnessed her ruthlessness in battle. The contact of her hands startled him from his thoughts, and suddenly he was leaning against the car as she unwrapped the armour from his chest. The young woman worked through the leather strings with practised ease, her head bend over it, fiery hair taunting him as it swayed just below his chin. Such an intimate gesture, something a wife might have done to a knight before serving a stew cooked over the hearth. Something he was quite sure he never had. Loneliness… As the weight of his armour lifted from his shoulders, Kristan suddenly winced at the stab on his upper chest. A gasp answered him; blood had coated the tunic furiously. Maybe the wound was deeper than he thought.

— "Come," she said as she guided him inside.

Frances pushed the seat back to allow more room for his long legs, and reclined the backrest a bit. She then placed a bottle of water between them, and advised him.

— "You need to stay as still as possible. The blood flow has stopped, I'll patch you up at home, all right?"

Kristan nodded, his eyelids heavy. They'd decided not to go to hospital right away; how could they possibly explain the sorry state they were in without the police launching an investigation? Frances was unsure, though, and told him she'd wash the grime away, and bring him to the emergency room for his concussion. Hopefully, they would be able to hide the rest of the cuts and bruises under their clothes. A few minutes passed, Frances coming back and forth, texting friends that they were alive, shedding her armour as well, and doing whatever a woman was doing after a LARP outing that nearly got her killed. Kristan nearly fell into slumber, but the bang of the door woke him up.

— "I'm sorry Kristan, you can't sleep now. I need you to stay awake."

— "Mmrmrmright," he mumbled.

The young woman turned the music on to prevent him from dozing off, and started the engine. Very soon, they were speeding down the A75 motorway. Frances drove smoothly, her trajectories soft, but purposeful. The traffic in south of France was hell to him, yet the woman navigated it with grace. Habits, probably. Despite his dizzy state, Kristan couldn't help but notice the purple bruise on her left wrist and the way she kept it bent at an angle. He hoped it wasn't broken; would she cry out in pain if it was? Every once in a while, Frances checked on him, driving him into conversation to assess the state of his mind. It was clearing a little, but not yet fully to allow a real exchange. So so many questions swam in his head that he didn't know where to start.

A quick peek at his driver told him that Frances, too, was exhausted. Kristan bit his tongue. Maybe he should let it go for a while without demanding answers. They were both alive, in the same car; Frances wouldn't bail after all, right ? The soft voice of Jean-Jacques Goldman lulled him for a time until a melody tugged at his memories. The song was familiar, and he racked his brain to remember where he'd heard it. But try a he might, his fuzzy mind wouldn't surrender. Until Frances started singing along, her voice quiet in the silence of their thoughts. And then it ticked.

Nos raisons renoncent, mais pas nos mémoires (Our reason surrendered, but not our memories)  
Tendres adolescences, j'y pense et j'y repense (Gentle teenagers, I think about it all the time)  
Tombe mon soir et je voudrais vous revoir (The night falls, and I'd like to see you again)

Nous vivions du temps, de son air (We lived from the air of time)  
Arrogants comme sont les amants (Arrogants, like lovers are)  
Nous avions l'orgueil ordinaire (We were so proud to think)  
Du « nous deux c'est différent » (That we were different)

— "What's this song?" he asked suddenly, more awake than he'd been for hours.

— "Je voudrais vous revoir", from Jean-Jacques Goldman.

Something must have passed in his eyes, for Frances' question was interrupted.

— "Ever heard… it?"

Her voice faltered, realisation dawning on her. Yes, he'd heard it. From her. Fifteen hundred years ago. Her grip tightened on the wheel, her breath short, eyes firmly set on the road to avoid his gaze. And then, things began to clear out as Kristan pieced the clues together.

— "The holes on your shoulder piece … they are from the Hawk, right? And this song. I remember you…"

And then, Kristan felt like he'd hit a wall. Hard. A sharp intake of breath called her troubled gaze to him.

— "You were here when I died."

Frances nodded slowly, chancing a desolate look in his direction. The intensity of her gaze took his breath away as he processed this incredible piece of information.

— "How is that even possible? How could it be you?"

The young woman sighed, her eyes returning to the road as they descended the valley to Montpellier.

— "You died, Tristan. In my arms, fifteen hundred years ago. The magic of the necklace took me there, and I failed you."

A lone tear ran down her cheek, and Kristan's mind went numb as his fingers wiped it from her soft skin without a second thought. Despite his shyness, he had just crossed all boundaries and propriety and marvelled that it seemed so normal. Perhaps almost dying together gave him leave to procure a little comfort? How would she react? Would she be angry at him for taking advantage of her sadness? What right did he have to touch her? But the gesture was so intimate, so soft, that her anguish was quenched instantly. He voice was soft as she confided her puzzlement.

— "I do not understand how you come to stand before me now, Kristan."

He nodded. He neither. This whole mess was just too surreal to his rational mind. Yet, soulless elves that disappeared when being stabbed by a magical blade won the prize !

— "I believe I am reincarnated. And for a moment, I thought you were too."

The red curls that had escaped her tight braid flew from left to right as she shook her head.

— "Nay. You are Kristan now, a different man than you used to be. Brighter, happier. Tristan bore his name well, he was so sad."

The fencing instructor almost snorted.

— "People say I am gruff."

At this, Frances laughed silently, her eyebrow quirking up as her hand landed on his, her warmth seeping through his skin. It was a casual gesture, born of habit, one that felt right. But when she realised what she'd done, Frances retrieved her hand quickly.

— "Forgive me. I … we were friends."

The loss of contact left him suddenly bereft, but before he could voice it, Frances was talking of his past self. He couldn't help but be engrossed; it was an incredible feat, to hear firsthand about the man he'd dreamt for so long. His past self.

— "You are a thousand times less gruff than Tristan used to be. I'd surmise you are just shy and enjoy the quiet, that is all"

Kristan paused, a warm feeling spreading into his soul.

— "It is unsettling. You are the first one to see right through me."

She addressed him a private smile.

— "Because you have changed, and yet, the core of you is still the same. But me, I am just plain old Frances, the same woman your soul knew, more or less. With a little more experience of the years passed, but still the same me,"

Kristan almost choked at hearing such words, his damaged brain unable to add a filter between his thoughts and his mouth.

— "There's nothing plain or old about you, I assure you. I am sure I admired you then, and still do now. There is so much I want to know…"

His words seemed to plunge Frances into an abyss of consideration. Her cheeks, marred with bruises that darkened by the minute, gently tinted pink and for a while. Then a mischievous smile graced her rosy lips as she found her voice again.

— "Shoot"

Her favourite expression back then. The private joke went unnoticed as Kristan's mind reeled with questions. Grabbing the bottle of water, he opened the cap and eyed her.

— "Will you tell me who I was?"

And Frances proceeded to tell him of Tristan; of the knight he used to be, of the broken man, of his fellow knights and the hard life they led, and of the great leader that was King Arthur. At those words, Kristan nearly choked his mouthful of water out, hard coughing wracking his body and shooting painful throbs to his head.

— "Damn! It hurts! but… King Arthur? THE King Arthur? You're kidding me, right?"

Of course, he had not realised yet that Tristan was a knight of the round table. The legends were, after all, a little fuzzy around him. They spoke of Isolde and their love, but never of his feats of arms.

— "I'm deadly serious"

Silence descended in the car as droplets of rain started to baptise the windshield. The rain was welcome in this arid place, and Kristan sighed. Sometimes he missed home and its wet weather. Here, no snow would grace the ground in winter, only harsh wind and veiled sun. The trees themselves were smaller, begging for a drink, twisting and turning to avoid the scorching heat. Most bushes wore spikes to shield themselves from the harshness of summer.

Frances kept her mouth shut, giving him some time to process this capital information. Kristan let his skull drop on the headrest, eyes closed. The revelation was stunning at best, and he somehow feared that Frances was still pulling his leg. Even if he knew her statement to be true, his bones felt it as much as his soaring heart. His whole life had been nurtured by the tales of Arthur and his mighty knights. Hearing that he'd been one of them was quite close to a dream come true. At last, his quivering voice stated the truth.

— "I have always been fascinated by that tale, Arthur and the round table."

She snorted.

— "I'm not surprised, since you were one of them. And that hawk of yours… As deadly as she was beautiful. She was so loyal to you. But I honestly would rather have a cat,"

Kristan chuckled, earning a startled look from Frances. Instantly, he wondered what he'd done wrong.

— "What?"

The young woman's features fell slightly.

— "You didn't laugh a lot back then. It's a shame, really."

So much was left unsaid that the very air seemed to thicken. Kristan sighed; if the mood turned sombre, he would at least take advantage of it and ask the more difficult of his lifelong query.

— "Tell me how I died."

— "With honour"

A clipped answer. When she offered no more, Kristan eyed her tense posture and white knuckles on the steering wheel. He berated himself for hitting a nerve so bluntly.

— "I am sorry, I didn't realise… I have trouble understanding it all."

Frances nodded, closing her eyes a moment to hide the moist away from him. But he was an observant man, and her quivering voice sold her out anyway.

— "Tristan died in my arms. It is a memory that has haunted me ever since."

Kristan frowned, his nonexistent eyebrows knitting together. He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that this very woman had witnessed the death of his past self, fifteen hundred years ago. Somehow, he could still feel the taste of her tears on his face.

— "Were we good friends?"

Frances bit her lip, wondering once more, what they had been to each other.

— "Yes, even if knew you for less than a month. We had a common purpose, to care for the knights, and it just created this … connection between us"

Warmth spread into his chest at her words without him understanding the reason for it. After all, his mind was still a little fuzzy. But a logical question needed answering.

— "How long ago was it, Frances?"

— "It was the year 467. For me… Four years, give or take. It could be mere hours, for I shall never forget it."

Four years, against fifteen hundred. He'd had time to heal, but what about her? How did her life resume after meeting the knights of the round table? After crying for his lost life? After dealing death on a battlefield?

— "I have trouble with this concept of time travel, truly."

— "There are writings… I have recorded my missions by means of manuscript, and it would be easier for me if you would read it. There's much to recount, and some of it is too painful to…"

— "I'd love to"

And no more was said about him and his death, but Frances consented to tell him of his fellow knights, and Artorius Castus, and the mention of this great man and King brought a smile to her lips, and Kristan found that her bright and joyous expression was the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

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[1] Jack O'Neill prime principle


	8. Chapter 8 - Patching up

**_So, at last a little down time for Kristan and Frances to get reacquainted. I am currently struggling with chapter 15 dealing with the crossover with Stargate, it had been such a long time I didn't watch those TV series, but just getting the script from the episode reminds of how great it was._**

**_To Koba: I'm glad you liked the battle. I had not been thinking that since I followed Frances, then Kristan, the reader might feel exposed because he couldn't see everything!_**

**_Anyway. It is Saturday evening (for me at least), and time for a new chapter. What do you think?_**

At last, they were home! Frances deflated as she cut the contact, leaning a few seconds against the steering wheel to rest her pounding head. The drive back had taken its toll. The throb in her wrist hurt like hell, and she felt keenly the slice on her shoulder. Her body probably was a nice artwork of black and blue, ribs, elbows and back still feeling their encounter with rocks and attackers alike. And Kristan's questions had brought as much joy as it brought pain. Still, she marvelled at his observation skills; once he'd seen her distress, he had not insisted. After all, he deserved to know better than anyone else. Yet, she had not the courage to tell him of his death, how deeply it had affected her and how she'd mourned for him. Neither would she mention the fact that she had felt him, over the course of her other travels, several times. As a ghost. Or that they'd shared a heated kiss before his death, switching the relationship from friends to … something else. Even after four years, she still felt insecure about that particular moment.

And this whole sentimental mess would have to wait for the appearance of the dark elves sent her mind into endless considerations. She needed to call Jack O'Neill for counsel. What if there were others around the world? Jack was, after all, the head of Homeworld security, which meant he was more than qualified to handle and monitor this sort of stuff. Yay! she wasn't looking forward to making this phone call. Ever since they'd discovered the magic of the necklace, she'd been kicked out of her consulting position in the SGC for dissimulating her travels and the artifact that her magical necklace represented. Even more because she refused to denounce the man – vampire! – who had given it to her. How would Jack react? Would he blame her because she had endangered the world? Would he denounce her to the president and its joint chiefs? The unspoken breach between private – and inconsequential to the world until now – and public – now her travels had potential consequences – could only spiral downwards. Damn, it didn't look good.

— "Frances?"

Kristan's worried voice interrupted her musings, and she marvelled once more at the tone; it had not changed one bit. Still smooth like honey, still sexy as hell.

— "Right. Sorry, I'm tired. Let's head up"

A quick peek to Kristan told her he could negotiate the stairs on his own, and they grabbed their gear with aching limbs, dragging themselves to the second floor. Each step was a struggle, and these damn stairs never seemed to end! But at last, the door of her apartment was open.

— "Welcome to my place," she dryly said, flinging her keys of the wooden table.

Her flat was sparsely furnished, the shutters still closed and blocking the light. Nothing like home. Frances dropped her equipment and Kristan's beside the keys and led the fencing instructor to the bathroom. His eyes were heavy, but it didn't prevent him from taking it all in. She could see it in the way his gaze roamed over the place, using the little light filtering through the openings, to observe her dwelling. Curtains of blue and cream, a nice open kitchen, a huge battered sofa who seemed to have had several lives and a computer standing on an Ikea desk. There was not much in the room in terms of decoration, except for two paintings she'd bought in Norway right before returning to France; a reminder of how beautiful the country was. A short corridor led to a bright bathroom with a small window. Frances dragged a stool into the room and set it down next to the sink.

— "Sit," she told him.

Kristan all but crashed down such was the state of his exhaustion. His grey eyes followed her every movement as she gathered supplies. His observation was as unsettling as ever, but Frances shook it off. She'd just have to get used to it … again. The notion brought a smile to her lips. Again. That meant that Kristan had somehow returned to her and this, despite the exhaustion and aches of her battered body, was a cause for celebration. For now though, she needed to assess his injuries, and make sure he didn't need the hospital for his concussion. Compresses, steri-strips, disinfectant and gauze were set on the table. Frances turned to Kristan, her expression a little bashful.

— "Er. Can you pull your left arm out of your tunic?"

The man nodded, moving slowly and wincing at the strain.

— "Let me," she said softly, gathering the linen cloth in her hands and pulling slowly.

Blood had coated the wound, and Frances paused.

— "Just take it off," he growled impatiently, his arm bent in an awkward position.

The young woman shook her head, biting her lip as she thought.

— "Now, now. Maybe we can find a way to…"

A little bulb lighted in her head, and she soaked a towel with warm water, then applied it to the blood coated tunic. A muffled groan was his only reaction. Knowing Tristan's tolerance for pain, it meant that the wound was sore. Little by little, she managed to unpeel the fabric from his skin until she could remove it entirely. His lean torso didn't surprise her; she expected from the way he moved that he'd be packed with efficient muscles and quite devoid of body fat. Yet, her fingers longed to trace the soft skin; his body was a work of art. Unlike the knights, he bore no scars but a few bruises adorned his ribs. A new testimony that Kristan was different from his past self. Blushing a little at the sight, Frances concentrated on the cut that marred his upper pectoral. It was deep, but not extended. A stitch or two would have been necessary, but steri-strips could also do the job. Frances told him so, and Kristan nodded his acceptance. He was too damn tired for a trip to the emergency room!

The young woman set to work, bathing the wound, applying the disinfectant, and placing the steri-strips. Her gentle hands worked with ease, soothing and reassuring, the result of several months under Aragorn's tutelage and many other healers. Others like her second husband[1]. What would Stephen have done in light of this deep cut? Would he be satisfied with her dressing?

— "Anything else that needs mending?" she eventually asked.

— "Nothing serious. Now, let me see to yours."

Frances' mouth opened and closed, making a nice impression of a fish out of its waters.

— "But…?"

— "No buts, woman. Your shoulder piece is ruined. Your wound might need stitches"

She knew that tone of voice, the one that brook no arguments. She was too tired to struggle against him of all men. If Kristan had half the strength of will that Tristan used to have, this battle was already lost. Better to comply.

— "All right"

The young woman turned her back to him and puller her tunic up, hissing as needles shot through her nerves. Damn her inattention! And she'd been lucky! This wound could have been much, much worse. Frances nearly jumped out of her skin when his fingers trailed on her skin.

— "Easy, there," he mumbled as his other hand grabbed her shoulder gently.

Frozen, she could only try to calm her heartbeat, his firm touch soothing the sting of the gash.

— "It is not as deep as I feared. Steri-strips should be enough."

Frances sighed in relief, her armour had once more saved her from serious damage.

— "You need to pull your tunic a little higher."

It was a command, more than a demand, and Frances complied without a second thought. Slowly, she pulled her tunic, rolling it over her injured shoulder to pin it in place. A loud intake of breath caused the young woman to turn around sharply, sending a jolt of pain through her stiff muscles. A cry escaped her, but the horrified look in Kristan's eyes sealed her lips instantly. A dark hue passed into his sky grey irises, his mouth set in a firm line.

— "What is it?" she asked, concerned.

The iciness of his voice sent shivers down her spine.

— "See for yourself," came his firm answer as he pushed her around.

Frowning, Frances turned her head slowly, careful not to hurt herself as she checked her upper back. Dark and purple bruises decorated her skin, the legacy of well-aimed kicks and blades that had ruined her armour. The young woman shrugged slightly; she was alive.

— "It was a tough fight. Gallivanting on the rocky ground didn't help."

Something akin to fear danced in Kristan's eyes, and she reached for his arm instantly.

— "I'd be dead if it wasn't for you. Thank you Kristan, for sticking with me."

A slight smile curved the corner of his mouth.

— "Well. You certainly didn't make it easy. Your arm-to-arm technique definitely beats mine."

The young woman gave him a bashful smile, the souvenir of her manhandling making her feel quite guilty.

— "I'm sorry, I couldn't let you… I didn't want you to kill to protect me. Well, you understand now, right?"

Kristan nodded, reaching for a compress behind her. His tall frame dwarfed hers entirely, and his scent enveloped her senses as he leant forward.

— "Your swordsmanship also beats mine."

Frances chuckled, amused at the notion.

— "Well, that's a first."

— "Given that I'm a fencing instructor, I'd say so."

Frances welcomed the attempt at humour. She sorely needed it after this exhausting day, and it distracted her from the closeness of his body. As a knight, Tristan always wore several layers of clothing, using armour and a heavy leather vest that protected him from the cold. His beard and hair covered half of his face as well, creating distance even when he had been close. But Kristan only stood in his slightly soaked tunic; his heat and scent radiated from him. Frances swallowed nervously as he turned her around with a gentle hand, trying to keep her voice levelled.

— "It makes sense, you know. Tristan was deadly with his blade, I've rarely met a swordsman like him. But you're not him anymore. Even if you seem to have plenty of memories and automatisms from your past life, it is incredible that you show such skills today."

— "Then let us thank God I still have them, because I'd be sorely dead if I didn't."

Frances shuddered slightly at the thought. She would have found him again, only to lead him to his death. The thought was unpleasant.

— "Yeah"

She would have loved to tell him of her trust, of the heaviness of her when she had pushed him away. The sting in her shoulder, though, was enough for her to grit her teeth. She didn't utter a sound as he worked on the lengthy cut. His concentrated silence, though, held something more. Fear, anger, despair, terrifying thoughts that swirled through his mind as he treated the wound. It was the same shoulder that had been pierced by the crossbow bolt at Badon Hill. As Kristan placed the steri-strips in place, six of them, along the cut, he let his fingers run on the smooth skin. Frances could not repress her shiver.

— "Where's the scar?"

Frances turned around, heedless of her exposed sports bra, a question written on her face.

— "Which one?"

Kristan tapped his finger just above her clavicle, finding the exact spot where the cross bolt embedded itself in her flesh. Frances shied away from his hand; even if the tissue had been recreated on her trip back, something had remained from this battle. A dull ache, sometimes a pulsing pain, to remind her from the day she'd jumped in front of a crossbow to save Lancelot.

— "How …? You were dying…"

— "I've dreamt of it very often, and detailed your body and face more times than I can recount as I relived my death over and over again. And I've felt the fear as well, the fear that you might not survive because of this bolt."

Her hazel eyes couldn't leave his, they held her in their power as he awaited the truth.

— "Basically, I am recreated each time I step through the portal the necklace uses. It will be explained in the writings. I bear no scars from previous missions"

What a weird statement! A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over Kristan, the pounding of his head becoming louder. His long arms braced themselves on the counter as he nodded. Trapped in his embrace, Frances supported him as he sagged, placing her shoulder below his arm.

— "You need to rest, Kristan. Do you want to go to the hospital for your concussion?"

The young man grimaced, steadying himself before he sat on the stool once more.

— "I'd rather not. I'll head home now"

Frances' eyebrows hit her hairline.

— "Forget it. You're not going anywhere. I got a guest room. You'll sleep here, and when you feel better, you can go home. I'll check on you during the night, asking simple questions to see if you are still consistent."

And then, something hit her like a truck. A man like him, at his age, couldn't possibly be single! What about his wife, girlfriend, companion? How selfish she had been! The very thought sent a sharp pain to her stomach, and Frances had to breathe out to utter the next sentence.

— "Unless someone is waiting for you? In that case, maybe we should give a phone call and they can pick you up? I'm sorry, I don't mean to be overwhelming, but you shouldn't be standing with a head injury like this. I should have asked … not that I want to pry but…"

The warmth of his hand landing on her upper arm interrupted her babbling. His eyes seemed to smile at her nervousness albeit his face stayed impassive; his little fairy was getting all riled up.

— "Relax, Frances. No one is waiting for me. I am divorced now. Free. I'll stay there if your offer still stands. I might sleep for three days in a row."

The young woman seemed to deflate, the weight on her shoulders slipping away. Lucie had not mentioned any wife, for sure. It was probably the fatigue setting in, wrecking her brain.

— "All right then. Let's get you settled. I'll feed you by intravein."

His faint eyebrows shot up and Frances chuckled at his surprised expression. He was much more open than Tristan used to be. Dragging him from the counter, she led him out of the bathroom.

— "Just joking. I'll be out tomorrow, it's a work day for me."

Kristan stopped dead in the corridor, his growl barely above a whisper.

— "You mean to say you're going to work with this injury?"

— "I can hardly go to the doctor asking for sick leave, right? I'll just have to find a nice cover story for the bruises. It might involve you, so that you get a cover as well."

As she strode into the guest room, finding sheets and a nice comforter, she could nearly hear his teeth grinding.

— "You cannot be serious"

Frances settled the linens on the bed, and sent him a square look. She still had to make that call to Homeworld security, wash their armours, and prepare for tomorrow. Now what not the time to pull the fifth century man macho act!

— "Kristan. This is the modern world. Life is life, and I've had worse. I'll be sore, I'll hurt like bitch, but I need to keep my cover. I don't want the police involved, my boss is already pissed with me, so I'm going to work, period."

— "But…"

— "Aha!"

The interjection shut his mouth instantly, and Frances sent him a glare. She understood what went through his mind, and still wouldn't accept it.

— "No, mister protective. I'm the Keeper of time, remember? This is my job, and I've been doing it for nearly ten years now. You need to trust me to take care of myself. This is not the fifth century anymore."

Kristan sighed; his soul knew from experience that when her mind was set, there was no steering her away. And he was so tired, he was literally falling apart. Frances made the bed quickly, sheets of linen and feather comforter set up in mere minutes. She'd forbidden him to help, and his dizzy mind agreed with her, much to the dismay of his wounded pride. It gave him more time to observe the sewing machines that throned in the guest room, and the material that littered the large makeshift desk. Thread, buttons, zippers, wooden boxes, handcuffs… - handcuffs ? - and pieces of fabric. She didn't seem like an adept of bondage… His eyes settled back on her, seeing that despite her numerous injuries, she still was able to move around much better than him. Whether she was tougher than she looked or merely used to functioning with multiple wounds, he had to admit that she was efficient. It somehow broke his heart, to see her so used to being in pain that she didn't even register it anymore. The perfect counterpart to Tristan.

At last, Frances left the room with an awkward wave of her hand, not before she set down a bottle of water and a pack of chocolate biscuits for dinner. Granted, he'd had nicer snacks than a set of 'petits écoliers', but hunger was the least of his worries and he appreciated the gesture all the same. Kristan removed his tunic and breeches with difficulty and settled in the bed with a sigh. Its comfort was a release to the stressful day, the soft fabric caressing his skin, the pillow welcoming his sore head, her faint scent lulling him to sleep within minutes.

* * *

[1] Stephen Maturin, from 'Le navire' and the excellent work of Patrick O'Brian. (Master and Commander movie)


	9. Chapter 9 - Dealing with the mess

**_So, are you up for more? I feel like Alexandre Dumas when he used to publish the three musketeers into a magazine, piece by piece hehe. God bless his soul._**

**_To Koba: Yes, a little recuperation time would have been nice for Frances. Unfortunately, it is not in order… She's got her closet full of pain medication, though, and her job is rather dull and not demanding. She is in a tight spot with her boss at the moment, so … better to show her face. And yes, Kristan knows Tristan more than he thinks. The emotions, the core of his character have not changed that much._**

Frances closed the program for the umpteenth time. She was bored out of her mind. Never before had this testing job seemed so pointless. Another bug in this stupid software's life, another one that would not be corrected and that the client would find again, and call her about, in less than a few months. Another issue for which she'd be yelled at, even if she felt like telling the customers that they were right, and that the product was indeed, an expensive piece of shit. Sigh. Her mind flew once more from her office, her gaze getting lost in the dry hills of western Montpellier, far away to Scotland in the fifth century. How did Kristan fare in this too bright morning? Was he awake yet? She'd woken him up every third hour, asking his name, and how much di make, or 7 x 9. The protocol for a concussion as per Elrond's handbook. The man had sent her flying with a curse after the third time; he'd been patient enough. And seemed consistent, in Danish at least, so she'd foregone the latest test.

Her own head was pounding, as much from the strain and blows from the previous morning than from repeating over and over again her lame cover story. Strategically, Aurélien and Lucie had been the first to know; they'd then gush about their LARP week end and spread her misadventure at the coffee machine, making it more credible. As far as they knew, she'd gone with Kristan to spar, tumbled down the forest, and hit her head on rocks and trunks while he tried to catch her. Kristan had gone downhill as well, hurting himself in the process, and they'd finish in the emergency room for the remainder of the afternoon. Lucie had sent her an exasperated look, and pursed her lips but said nothing. Smart woman; she knew better than to accuse her of robbing her beloved fencing instructor. It was lucky that the young engineer ignored as well that said man was probably still sleeping in her guest room, or that she'd been by his side every third hour in the night. Talk about intimacy…

Frances looked like hell, and many colleagues had come to ask her if she was all right. No matter how distant she was in the office, some people cared for her. Her British-irakian office friend, for one, had fussed over her black and blue face. Two of her former engineering schoolmates as well, seemed quite abashed and had offered creams and ointments to ease her pain. Fortunately, none had questioned her stiff movements, blaming her fall rather than a sword's slice. The cut still stung and had bled through the bandage, unnoticed; bless the dark blouse. Codein was her best friend. Rest would have been nice as well … especially with her guest probably lounging about at home. But overall, Frances held up quite nicely. She was so used to being banged up and bruised, be it from her missions or with SG1 that she had got used to the pain. Or was it a genetic trait ? As far as she could remember, the young woman had always rejected pain medication at home. Something to do with learning from your mistakes.

Reclining backwards, the young woman sighed heavily. She'd declined walking down to the supermarket for lunch; her sliced calf stung – even bandaged tightly – and the rest of her muscles didn't fare much better. It also felt like this time she'd done a crazy session of climbing with the flu; they were locked and made her moves stiff. The receptionist lady, seeing her bruised cheeks, had ordered lunch for her to partake in her office. She was a great woman, that one; an American lost in the south of France for the latest fifteen years, a heart as big as Oregon. It was lucky that the pantsuit and blouse covered the rest of her body entirely lest they call the firefighters to evacuate her. Yet now, even after her fifth tablet of medicine, the aches took their toll. She had not suffered such sore muscles since forever; it had been the hell of a battle! As she mused on her strength and weaknesses compared to her skills in the fields of Moranon – she wasn't dead, for one! A great improvement –, her desk neighbour eyed her with amusement. Eventually, he addressed her softly.

— "Go home, Frances. It's three-thirty already. Take the rest of the day off, you look like hell."

Frances popped one eye open to assess his intentions. Olivier was quite withdrawn with the rest of the team, his eyes containing such hurt and sadness that it was sometimes difficult to reach him. But his heart was in the right place. What was the point of staying for this blasted software anyway? As he saw her hesitation, Olivier pushed once more.

— "Go. I'll tell our boss. He won't complain if it's me."

Frances nodded. She knew that Olivier would use his influence over their lunatic boss. He was, after all, the one who would succeed him. Chocolate cake was in order when she got back ! Wincing as she stood from her chair, Frances could feel the blood sipping from her back wound. Damn! She turned around furtively to check the office chair, and sighed in relief to see that it was clean. Dressing the wound again would prove difficult on her own.

— "Thanks, comrade," she said playfully.

— "You're welcome"

And just like that, Frances walked away to her car, unnoticed by anyone but the receptionist who sent her a warm smile. Yeah. This job was a bitch, but the people working there were surprisingly nice. Settling into the comfort of her blue candy, as she called her car, Frances started the short journey to wherever she called home at the moment.

Kristan had eventually migrated from the guest room to the sofa, his head a little clearer than the day before. It still hurt like hell, and his movements were slow at best, when not erratic. He'd tried to wake up for ages, plunging back into a restless sleep plagued by horrible dreams. Dark elves had haunted his night, sometimes replaced by blue devils whose blood flowed freely under his blade. Nightmares from his first real battle, nightmares from his past life. Needless to say, that relief was the first emotion to greet him when he eventually awoke. The softness of freshly pressed sheets were a great change compared to his memories. Tenderness followed as he tip toed in the corridor, and found the breakfast that Frances had laid out on the table. A note was addressed to him, written in elegant letters traced by a calligraphy quill, the colour a reminder of the endless sea. Scrambled eggs, a piece of cake and some tea to warm up were ready to fill his belly. Beside this thoughtful offering, a heavy piece of homemade manuscript awaited to be read.

_"Kristan, _

_I hope you had a restful sleep. I gathered you might be famished so I've prepared the basics of breakfast. Don't hesitate to roam the cupboards to find what you need. Although I do not have coffee, there's tea, bread, jam, butter and the fridge should offer cheese and ham if your heart yearns for it. We French eat too much sugar anyway_

_I'm sorry that I impaired your sleep last night; it was necessary to make sure you were all right. Most of what you told me was in Danish, though, so I'm not so sure you were that consistent…_

_My mobile number is at the bottom should you need anything. Do not hesitate, office days are scarcely fun, it would brighten my suffering or at least, provide a little distraction. I left the keys on the counter, and a little reading as promised. I hope you will find it enlightening._

_In the meantime, I've left a spare pair of trousers and a t-shirt. I'm sorry, they might be quite large for you, but I did not have time for adjustments. Your tunic in ruined, and your breeches needed a good wash._

_Please endeavour to get some rest. Concussion is a nasty business. I'll be happy to find you should you chose to stay. Should you not, I wish you well and please take care of yourself"_

_Yours faithfully, Frances"_

Kristan smiled. Formal, yet laden with gentleness. And trust. She'd left her keys, and her apartment at his entire disposal, cooked something for him, provided him with fresh clothes, apologised for taking care of his health and surrendered her mobile number. All of this before she left for work, and she was as banged up as he was. Kristan fetched his mobile to save Frances' number, and read the letter anew, his lips still quirked. Her style was quite ancient, probably an effect from her numerous travels. And there was no doubt that Frances loved writing, the heavy manuscript was a testimony to her hobby. Said book seemed to taunt him as his hands slowly caressed the cover. 'All hail to the King,' was written with her calligraphy quill.

The fencing instructor sank into the sofa with his tray. The warm tea was very welcome, he ate and drank greedily. Frances had left two tablets of strong medicine for his head, another nice gesture that he appreciated. He could get used to it, to be pampered like this. Yet, his heart remembered well enough that Frances was not available. For he had forgotten many things, but not the look of despair on her face once she'd realised that her betrothed was out of reach. Still, he couldn't help but feel touched by her attention. She truly was an extraordinary woman, the best of friends to have.

And the manuscript in her hands – the tale of her travel to the fifth century – only confirmed his theory. He had known all along, through the haze of his dreams, and deep down, that he was a broken and solitary man back then. He'd just not realised how much, how fifteen years of service for the Roman empire had achieved to taint his soul. Yet, Frances had offered her friendship. Her story was written from her point of view, in a style that should have been easy to read had it been lighter. But the feelings it contained, the tale it recounted, was anything but crushing. Kristan allowed tears to trail his cheeks as he read. Memories flooded him, his soul recalling his fellow brothers, the knights of the round table. He still had trouble wrapping his mind around the notion that he had lived it all! Somehow, it was frustrating that Frances had joined them so late in their history; he would have loved to hear about his fallen brothers, those who'd died during the service. But she knew nothing about them; they were lost in the arcane of his past memory. All in all, it was quite weird to read of your past self. Especially when you knew the end of the story; his gruesome death.

The sun travelled south, and Kristan dozed off on the sofa. It was not a fancy piece of furniture but proved to be surprisingly comfortable. Emerging from his improvised nap a few hours later, Kristan stretched carefully and walked about the flat. His stomach grumbled, asking for sustenance, and he fixed himself a little snack with eggs, tomatoes and avocado. He decided that he would push his luck and try to shower without washing his upper torso. The bathtub welcomed him nicely, he that was quite tall, and Kristan soaked for a while. He felt strangely at peace. While he knew he was a stranger in her home, her scent permeated through every room, soothing him. No. he didn't feel out of place. His mind wandered about the flat and its spartan furniture. Comfortable, but sparse. Useful items only... except for that pair of shackles. It resembled his way of life now that he'd left everything to his ex-wife, with a little more care about kitchen furniture and cloth. Frances' sewing material sold her out; the lady loved fabrics. The pants she'd left for him seemed homemade as well, two sizes too wide, but he'd been able to adjust them with the lacings at the top. It just looked a little baggy on him, quite medieval in design. A memory of her, red hair on fire, mending a shirt sent a pang of longing through his heart.

The soaking had brought some solace and Kristan was quite ready to finish Frances' manuscript. He knew what was coming; the battle of Badon Hill, leading to his death. Something he wasn't looking forward to reading now, but he needed to know more than he needed air. Over the course of her story, he'd come to appreciate how close Tristan and Frances had become. He was surprised as well, that this taciturn man had allowed her to trample his barriers. Much like she had done yesterday. But Frances was not any woman, she was the Keeper of time, and a badass fighter. Perhaps Tristan had seen her worth; the core of his character had not changed so much after all. Today, Kristan was still secretive, still shy and withdrawn, a dreamy man hoping for a better life, a little disgusted by the modern world and hoping to find completion in love. So many dreams, most of them shattered by the ugliness and the hegemony of money. Some others trampled by reality. Not unlike his past life had been shattered by the hegemony of Rome. Kristan glided on the wooden floor, his feet taking in the smooth surface as its heat radiated through his skin. As a Nordic, he loved wood and its warmth. How much of his place of birth dictated his fancies? How did this new life, his new family, had changed him? Some of it was written before his very eyes. Some other things, he'd have to ask her. She was observant, she'd probably know.

Settling once more in the sofa, legs propped up, Kristan resumed his reading as his hair dried in a soft disarray. Using her hairbrush took him a step too far on intimacy, so he'd just passed his hand through his blondish strands to keep them from making knots. His grey eyes roamed the pages, his knuckles convulsing on the paper as Frances described the battle of Badon Hill. Pain erupted in his chest when she took the bolt for Lancelot, and Kristan's hand came to rest upon his own wound. The cut was pulsing uncomfortably, its location quite close to where the crossbow bolt had pierced her through. The pain must have been crippling, and yet, she'd crawled to him to give what remained of her energy. To see him safe in the afterlife. Kristan's breath hitched. He remembered it clearly, it was the only detailed memory of his past life. The droplets of her tears falling over his face as he died, her attempt at saving him giving him the strength to say goodbye, the warmth to embrace death with solace. Her writings did not detail any of it; she didn't know what she'd done for him then, still had no clue today; something that needed to be set right.

The rest of the story was coated in sadness. The pain of his passing, the weight of his absence, the guilt of her choice when she had gone to Lancelot first, forsaking the chance to save him. Would she be ready to discuss it ? He needed to tell her there was nothing she could have done, that if she had been by his side she might have died as well. That he didn't blame her for her sensible choice. Hell, even Tristan had warned her to not save him. He wondered if the pain and guilt had abated today; he doubted it, for the look in her eyes sometimes floored him with sadness.

Still, he was amazed she had felt his presence as a ghost. Perhaps then, he had really kept his word and watched over her. It could certainly explain some of his dreams, why he saw her on a Man-O-war[1], or in the sixteenth century talking to a vampire[2], why he'd seen her master this trick with her blade and cut through a machine gun in medieval Japan. Had she written all those travels as well?

Still, her agony pained him immensely. She wrote with such feeling that he could almost taste her tears. This was the sadness he'd seen in her eyes when meeting her Saturday morning; the weight of all the people she had lost. Kristan closed the manuscript. He'd have to ask about her travel to Arda, an important mission to which she referred quite often. Most of all, he wanted to know if she'd found her betrothed, and why he wasn't there in the first place. Would she hate him for asking? Would she resent him for staying in her home while the love of her life was away?

The noise of keys turning in the doorknob startled him; he'd dozed off again! Probably the effect of the pain medication. Kristan stood up a tad too fast, his head swimming as Frances passed the door. She dropped her keys in the entrance, leaving her bag on the way to the living room. Her posture stiff, high heels clicking softly, Kristan couldn't help but stare. She'd left her long mane free of their bonds, strands rolled into natural curls that framed her slender form and brushed her hips. A smart move, for it hid the bruises at her nape. The dark blouse showed nothing and everything at the same time, the form-fitting cut enhancing her womanly curves without baring any skin. Nor too tight, nor too loose, the perfect fabric for a woman so beautifully shaped. The professional pantsuit completed the outfit nicely, showing how dynamic her body was despite her slight limping. She was feminine, impressive and absolutely inaccessible. A woman of legends, hidden as an engineer. He had no doubts half of the office guys wanted her without daring to approach, he'd heard Lucie complain about it. Poor Lucie, she had no idea who she was dealing with; she was way out of her depth if she intended to compete with Frances. The Keeper of Time couldn't help what she was, and people felt it even if they couldn't understand. Gentle, yet deadly, even unarmed.

When she spotted him, standing behind the sofa, her smile turned his whole world upside down. Unlike the nice but 'stay-away' expression she had served his fellow companions on Saturday, this one was so genuine that he felt his insides melt. No matter how insecure he was, there was no mistaking that she was happy to see him. Did he deserve such welcome? He was nowhere as proficient as Tristan used to be, and even then, he knew the knight had been no match for her. Her voice interrupted his spiralling thoughts, her tone genuinely surprised.

— "How are you feeling, Kristan?"

He was grateful she didn't mistake him for Tristan. Not being one for small talk, or to beat around the bush, he pointed to the manuscript in his hand.

— "Confused. I have trouble knowing who I am."

Frances nodded, a frown marring her features as she walked up to him. She searched his face intently, checking up on his health without a doubt.

— "I understand. I don't know how I'd feel myself. It is a lot to take in."

Kristan nodded; he believed her. She stopped but a few inches from him, the air thick between them; he could feel her warmth, and the faint scent that was typically her. The heels compensated a little for the height difference, giving him a better view of her hazel eyes.

— "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked softly.

Kristan's answer was quieter than a breath.

— "Very much, yeah"

— "Let us do so, then. I am curious to know what you remember."

And talk they did for a while, huddled on the sofa with a cup of tea. Comfortable, all awkwardness washed way as they shared an intimate time of bonding over memories. Kristan didn't feel out of place; Frances didn't seem to think him a foreigner in her home. Perhaps it was the time to breach the difficult subject of her choices. Kristan tip toed around it, wondering how he could convey his convictions on the matter; that she had been right to choose Lancelot over him. Each time, the young woman seemed to dodge the subject.

Until an annoying phone call took her away. Her face changed at seeing the identity of the caller. He could hear the slight intonations of her voice as she argued against someone in her bedroom, but when she returned, her face was grim. Of course, Kristan asked if she was all right. She nodded absently, the slight crease between her eyebrows never leaving her expression.

— "Can I help?" he asked genuinely.

There was so much contained in this little sentence. Like 'Are you in danger?', or 'is there another fight to plan?' But the young woman just shrugged.

— "Ah, no. Just... Don't worry about it"

— "So no Keeper of Time travel coming, or major battle to worry about?"

The smile didn't reach her eyes.

— "Ah no, I don't think so."

Something was wrong, that much was obvious, but Kristan didn't want to pry. After another hour of questions where Frances really seemed out of it, the former knight reluctantly chose to leave. She obviously needed privacy to sort out whatever issue had fallen on her lap. But worry was gnawing at him, and it took all of his self-control to refrain from interrogating her. Besides, the young woman seemed conflicted about his decision. She pursed her lips as she loaded his bag with her manuscripts; it would give him some time to think, to regroup, and to learn about the Keeper of Time.

— "I don't need to tell you how confidential those writings are."

— "No ma'am," he answered playfully.

For a moment, Frances just froze, welcoming his smile with one of her own. But then, the gleam of uncertainty pooled in her eyes once more.

— "Be safe," she told him as he passed the door.

Kristan's instincts were screaming at him to grip her hand and never leave. The former knight huffed, ignoring them forcefully. Now was not the time to go all 'Tristan' on Frances; she'd probably kick him out without a second thought and call him an medievist.

His hand on her throat, the dagger pressed against the smooth skin. He was ready, so ready to kill her, to save his brothers from her witchcraft. One movement from his blade, and she'd bleed to death, her life force seeping into the forest floor. Her words meant nothing to him; she just aimed at enthralling him. Her hazel eyes didn't plead, didn't beg. Just the slightest of pressure… Sweet, beautiful lady, submissive in his grip… What lies lay beneath those lovely eyes? Tristan prepared to strike. The thrill of the kill, the satisfaction of having annihilated a threat, his own bloodlust ran through is veins. Until Lady Hawk landed on her shoulder, piercing two set of holes in her armour. Then she left in a flurry of wings, her feathers slapping his face as she passed him with a loud screech.

Kristan jolted awake, his hand flying to the stabbing wound on his chest. The movement had disturbed the healing pectoral, and he rubbed it absently. Another night where he'd fallen asleep on one of Frances' manuscripts, sitting in the sofa. Another time with dreams that became clearer and clearer. It was just as if her writing had opened the dam of his own repressed memories. But was it, really the case? Maybe he was just imagining things, based on her manuscript? Yet he couldn't refrain from noting that he knew some details she had not written down. So he wondered where those images came from. Like how the sun shone on the Japanese valley in the morning, casting shadows of rice fields awaiting the planting, the orange glow enlightening her fiery hair. Or how he'd been there, his hands on her shoulder, every time she tried to connect with the core of her blade in medieval Japan. Or how beautiful she looked in her homemade wedding dress - damn Stephen Maturin ! - on the day Captain Aubrey performed the office to marry them in 1805. Or how he'd distracted that Frenchman during the battle on the Acheron to prevent him from stabbing Frances from behind. As if, every time she stepped in the past, he'd been by her side.

Had he truly been keeping his promise? Keeping her safe for fifteen hundred years? He remembered this energetician woman who'd told him, one day, that he'd been a guardian angel for much longer than was required. That he was, now, entitled to happiness, to have what his heart yearned for. He'd dismissed her for a crazy woman, and married Gelda. His ex-wife. Thinking she would bring the happiness he longed for. In the darkness, Kristan took a heavy breath, his thoughts getting back to the woman who'd shared his life for eight years. Fiery hair, fiery temper as well. The hell of a woman, a typical Nordic lady. Sports woman, as much as he was. With a bright career, maybe too bright, a little overwhelming to give room for a man, or for said man to remain. That woman had called the warrior inside; she loved his ruthless side; that pent-up energy she'd spend in the bedroom. She'd embraced it, encouraging him to join the fencing club as he shied away from it. His sensitivity, though, he'd kept hidden for fear of being hurt. Yet, it had not prevented him from bearing some gruesome wounds.

They'd hurt each other, without even yelling, without arguing. He'd just drifted away, hurt by her indifference, by her dismissal of his sweetness and hopelessly romantic side, calling him ancient when his fifth century knowledge resurfaced, mocking him when souvenirs blended with reality. Most of all, he never forgave her claims that he, indeed, wanted another woman. He'd been sleep talking, apparently, dreaming about his death so many times that the tears had stopped coming. She'd called him instable, asking that he talk to a therapist, telling him he'd changed so much she didn't recognise him anymore. Where was the tough man she'd married? Turned into a tortured soul? Had Gelda overlooked it, as she gazed into his eyes, the glint of tainted spirit? Buried beneath the rest, hidden from view? Mayhap his concealment had been too great, born of habit, so efficient that even his wife could not acknowledge it. Yet, Frances had seen right through him, hadn't she? Just like he could bare her soul with one pointed look. So why had Gelda been so blind ?

Now he knew the truth of his dreams, the reality of his heart. He understood now, bashfully so, that his ex-wife was right; he'd married her thinking about the woman of his dreams, the same way she'd married him hoping to find someone else. An honest mistake, for two young people. Gelda had just been an ersatz, a woman of power, with confidence and lots of brains. But was nor as gentle, nor as beautiful – inside – as Frances. Not a woman of legend, not the Keeper of Time, not the woman he'd watched over – and pined for – fifteen hundred years. Not the woman could look into his eyes and see the vulnerability, accepting it, nursing his wounds into a cocoon of kindness. Even then, in the fifth century, when he could kill without a second thought, she'd nagged at him, preventing him from doing violence to protect her. 'Don't kill for me,' she had asked in the tavern. And begged him in the forest ten days prior, knowing her death imminent, and still refusing his involvement. She knew of his skills, and still thrived to protect his soul. A grand woman, that deserved a grand man … elf … an elvish prince.

Now he remembered. And reading about Frances' travels to middle earth, about her bright love for Legolas, this crushed his heart to embers. His divorce had broken him, yet he had eventually recovered fir the shame and failure. Now, he faced an even bigger challenge. Frances had got married in the 19th century[3], for a few weeks only, before getting back to her own time. Did it mean that she'd got over Legolas? If it did, it gave him a little hope. Still, that meant that eternal love meant nothing to her. As Tristan, he had very clear memory of her refusing anyone who approached. What had happened for her to let go? If she still loved Legolas, there was no chance whatsoever that she'd ever want him as a companion. Marrying Maturin was just a weakness, an error of her too easily swayed heart. For he knew something for sure: Frances loved without boundaries, from the lowest sailor to the highest King. She bestowed her affection unconditionally.

What should he do? Ten days had passed since their battle again the dark elves in the forest. Kristan was worried. What if more attacked her place? What of this disturbing phone call ? The slice on her shoulder was serious, what would happen then if she was alone? Would she prevail in battle? Be able to dress her wound by herself? A hundred times, he'd picked up his phone, and typed in a message. A hundred times, he'd deleted it. How do you get in touch with the Keeper of Time? "Hey, how is it going? No murderous spectres at your place today?" Kristan sighed, frustrated. It was three in the morning, and he was teaching tomorrow. There would be no two-handed sword for his students; the puncture on his pectoral had closed off nicely, but was still very sore. Those steri-trips would have been very convenient in the fifth century!

* * *

[1] Le navire

[2] The Keeper of time

[3] 'Le navire', based on Master and Commander. Frances was grieving Legolas (that she gave up for her clone), and let her feelings for doctor Mathurin evolve further than expected, knowing that she wouldn't stay anyway. The doctor, unfazed, convinced her to get married even for a few weeks.


	10. Chapter 10 - Clashing swords

**_Italics is French._**

**_Thank you to all who reviewed this last chapter. Didn't get many more favourites, though. Sniffle. As usual, it was a review that sent me in motion again. You can Thank Koba once more :) This is a long chapter, get comfortable !_**

**_To Koba, have I mentioned how I love your reviews? Originally, the last bit from the previous chapter was included in this one. But it felt better to make a little break after Kristan's thoughts, rather than before. Sadly, he had not managed to overcome his shyness. I think he needs to see Frances as the human being she is, rather than the mystical creature she appeared to be as the Keeper of Time. As for 'Le navire', I need to translate it. It give a little context, Stephen Maturin was a middle-aged Irisho-Spanish surgeon that sailed on a british warship during Napoleonic wars because of his friendship with the Captain. Albeit he hated it (be at sea), he felt useful as the ship' doctor, and loyal to Captain Aubrey. Frances learnt a lot from him. He was a sensitive, educated man, a humanist with a big heart. Good enough with a sword, but not a figher. If you want to check what he looks like, type in 'Stephen Maturin' in Google._**

**_Kristan cannot know about the clone, because it happens in the present, at a moment when he wasn't a ghost anymore. This is a little tricky, since it is part of Frances' travels, but it happens in 2006. So Kristan is around 30 at the time, and living. Hence, he knows nothing about Melenwë. _**

Frances was at loss. Aurélien had just popped up in her office, claiming that this evening's fencing classes could only be sensational since most of the knights would be there, and asking if she wanted to join. The title made her scoff, calling a long-lost souvenir of Galahad passed out in the tavern, Gawain slumped on the table beside him.

— "Knights?" she enquired blandly.

— "Yeah, you know, the crusader party you met at the LARP before you went gallivanting with our instructor."

Aurélien laughed, oblivious to the cold sweat that ran down Frances' nape.

— "I'm sure Kristan won't mind," he added.

— "If he's not still pissed that I sent him tumbling downhill."

The engineer chuckled.

— "Ah, he's not like that, although he has a death glare that you don't want directed at you. I swear, sometimes he's nicer than a sheep, and the moment after you face an enraged wolf!"

Frances' eyebrow quirked up, a smile gracing her lips. Nicer than a sheep, eh? That meant Kristan had, in this life, mastered a few social skills. One brownie point for the scout.

— "I can only imagine," she commented drily.

— "You seemed to get along fine, and I didn't see you use that sword of yours. Come, humour me. You can finish this sparring match against Kristan without ending up in the emergency room."

— "I'll think about it."

This left Frances in a flurry of emotions. First of all, she was tired, jet lagged, and hurt everywhere. She was just back from a week in the States where dark elves had shown up and messed up with Marines. Needless to say, that O'Neill had sent her as a 'liaison' to the NCIS[1] section to handle the mess she'd created in the first place. It had ended with a Gibbs kidnapped, and a difficult fight with her magic sword to send all those bastards back from the world they came from. Fortunately, SG1 had been there to back her up. A nice knack of having been discovered is that she could use the air force to cover her; she wouldn't have been able to prevail by herself. She sported more bruises than she'd care to show, and was grateful people were quite unobservant and confused them from the ones she'd got the week before. What would Kristan say about her little run-in with dark elves? The former knight couldn't know about Homeword security, and how SG1 had come to be involved in this mess. Like Tristan, he always asked the right questions, and she wouldn't be able to lie to him.

Her manuscripts were in his hands ever since he left her home. His lack of contact had planted the seeds of doubts in her mind. What if he didn't want to hear about her? About all of this? He had a chance to live again; she didn't want to drag him into a dangerous life. If she showed up with her colleagues, would she be welcome?

Hours passed, and Frances was no closer to an epiphany than before. So when Aurélien came back in the evening, she nodded once. To hell with this! She wanted to see him, even if it was the last time before he kicked her out of his life.

— "I'll get my gear," she said. "Got some stuff to finish here, though. I might be late"

Armour and weapons were in the car already. After her misadventure with dark elves, she never separated from her sword and armour, and didn't wear skirts in the office anymore in case she had to fight. She also carried around her handgun – with permit – that Jack O'Neill had left her. As she drove, a million questions roamed through her mind. Maybe she could just show up, and leave if he didn't seem happy to see her? He deserved happiness, not the wretched mess of her life.

The evening's class had sent him on edge. It was nor the heat – although he wasn't so used to it – , nor the stab wound on his chest that ached still – he'd managed to stifle it with painkillers and the use of a one-handed lighter sword. The company of knights was here tonight and they'd partaken in duels for the amusement of their students. One of them was enquiring about the lady from the LARP game. Kristan's scout habits took over without him acknowledging it. Looming in a corner, he listened to the conversation as he directed the duel from afar. Eyes on the sparring partners, ears behind him.

— _"So this colleague of yours, she doesn't want to learn to fence?"_

It was Lucie who answered.

— _"I don't know. Aurélien asked, but she seemed a little out of it today. Probably the jet lag. She was called on an urgent mission in the States, only returned yesterday."_

— _"Yeah. And I've never seen such nice circles under ones' eyes. She seemed beaten. Probably flew economy too, damn company who doesn't even pay a proper ticket to their employees."_

There was a little ranting about social rules and bosses before his fellow knight steered the conversation aside, but Kristan couldn't help but worry. Beaten? What had been this urgent mission about? A sudden surge of anger washed through him at the realisation that his little fairy might not have been very forthcoming when it came to that fated phone call. The worst of it, though, was that she owed him nothing. But damn woman! She could have asked for help! As he replied their latest conversation in his mind, he remembered that no lies had passed her lips. What a sneaky fairy, being so used to dodge the truth!

— _"Well. She had a nice sword, and some good equipment if I recall."_

— _"And a nice figure to compliment i_t," said Pascal, waggling his eyebrows.

A round of laughter greeted this statement, and Aurélien commented aloud.

— _"Yeah, that too. But I'm not interested, so feel free to ask her out."_

Lucie threw her hands in the air.

— _"At least! One man who's not interested!"_

Aurélien nudged his colleague.

— _"Ah, a little jealous I see?"_

— _"No. But half of my team is pining after her. It must be tiresome in the end."_

A sudden surge of jealousy spooked Kristan who couldn't take it anymore. Half the company pining after her? There was not one of those sorry engineer worthy to be her companion. Hell, her fiancé was an immortal elvish Prince after all! Turning to his students, he called in a stern voice.

— _"Lucie, Pascal. Your turn!"_

The crusader winked at Lucie who addressed Kristan a sheepish smile. Apparently, his authority still had its effect on people. Hence the young woman's nervousness as she lifted her sword at Pascal.

— _"Don't worry, love, I'll go easy on you."_

Kristan glared at the flirty knight. Pascal was not one of his favourites. White hair, a little arrogance, eyes that roamed a tad too much.

— _"You'd better Pascal. I don't fancy a trip to the emergency room."_

The crusader sent him a heated look.

— _"Why don't you spar with Lucie yourself?" he retorted._

— _"I'm the instructor, she learns to defend herself, you learn to control your blows."_

Pascal swallowed instead of answering; he knew not to mess with Kristan when his mood spiked. The duel started, stopping every five second or so to adjust Lucie's posture. She wasn't a fighter, unlike Pascal, and kept opening her left side for slashes. The heavy equipment prevented them from doing much harm; but even with a wooden sword, ribs could be crushed. This was part of his job. Being an instructor, Kristan had to guide all sorts of people, even the ones whose swordsmanship left to be desired, even those who should stick to sewing. People unlike Frances, who could do both with quite some talent. Lucie kept fumbling with her grip, trying to find the right placement. So much that in the end, Kristan let out an exasperated huff.

— _"Quit that fidgeting, woman, you'll end up cutting your own leg!"_

Lucie, eyes wide as saucers, actually pouted. She'd never been subjected to Kristan's temper until now. A laugh echoed in the room as Frances strode into view, swords strapped at her hip, armour on her back.

— "Well done, Kristan. Very fifth century"

The fencing instructor spun on his heels so fast that his vision slightly blurred. Damn this concussion, still giving him trouble! Frances was there, a smirk on her lips, amused at the reminiscence of Tristan's favourite designative. Woman. But he could see her body was stiff, and the slight discolouration at her temple. Shit! She'd been fighting again!

A round of laughter greeted Frances' playful jab, ignoring the scowl he sent her. He wanted to shake her, and yell at her for being reckless and going on whatever dangerous endeavour without him.

— "I'll give you fifth century, women," he growled.

Frances smiled at his words, the tone reminding her so badly of Tristan when he was pissed that it almost hurt. Her bright expression, addressed to him, and only to him, seemed to dissipate his anger. Relieved to find her rather unharmed, the former knight looked forward to the challenge.

— "Then come," she said. "I shall not have you wait a moment more."

The woman strode ahead, her gait confident despite her battered body. She refused to let Kristan know how much she hurt, and a little challenge would do her good. Despite his growl, his grey eyes shone with mirth. Her words had struck a chord, though. Did she know that he'd been her constant companion every time she set foot in the past? Retrieving his Dao, he started to put on his own armour while his fellow friends whistled. Whispers replaced the exclamations when the company of knights realised that they intended to spar with real blades.

— _"Well, that should be interesting. It's been a while I didn't see Kristan in battle mode."_

— _"Yep. I never have, wouldn't miss it for the world."_

— _"It's a sight, believe me."_

Kristan ignored their comments as he tightened the leather throngs of his armour. But when another crusader came to him, he caught his worried stance.

— _"Hey, are you sure that you shouldn't use training swords?"_

The fencing instructor brushed his concerns aside.

— _"Don't worry, the little fairy can take it. She's quite fierce. And my blade is blunt."_

It had been a difficult compromise, to never work the edge of his blade. The gesture, sliding the metal on the whetstone, was such a soothing memory.

— _"But hers isn't"_

Kristan stared at the man, effectively stopping the protest in his throat. He'd come to learn that his death glare, revered among his friends and family, was a trait he shared with the former scout.

— _"OK, OK. Just be careful, right?"_

Kristan turned to his teammate, nodding once before his eyes settled on Frances. Fiery hair plaited, sword at the ready, she looked every bit the Keeper of Time from his dreams. Her hazel eyes stared at him, calling at his soul, asking a million questions. Kristan smiled, causing her steps to falter as he approached. Doubt hit him; was she really ready for a full-scale duel? He handed her a leather throng to wrap her blade and sent her a warning look.

— "No magic, little fairy. Else you'll send me to the butcher."

Frances smiled as she securely placed the leather around her elvish sword, her eyes darting to the side to see if anyone had heard his comment. She'd never put Kristan in danger, and mastered the magic of her blade quite well now. Did he really think she'd pull that trick on him? The throng was fastened securely – she'd done it a thousand times while training with Boromir and Aragorn – and she tested the balance of her blade with a few swift moves.

— "No worries. I'll go easy on you."

A low growl escaped his lips. Kristan knew she was taunting him, trying to cover his slip up about magic. Yet, he wouldn't back down from the challenge. He was quite sure, from the manuscript he'd read that Frances had never sparred with Tristan. Apparently, the scout used his blade as easily as he breathed. Kristan knew that he wasn't as proficient as his former self; he'd spend many years dancing, or being an accountant. Doing other things than killing in his life. Even his job as a fencing instructor could not be as demanding as being a knight. Hence the challenge, for he knew Frances to be quite proficient. Her training was more extensive than his now.

— "Yay!" came Pascal's enthusiastic cry.

— _"There Frances, show him what a geologist can do."_

Lucie snickered.

— _"Well, that seemed very fierce, Aurel."_

— _"Hey, hey, what's the bet? What does the winner get?"_ called one small guy from the crusaders' company, covered in nailed armour, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Frances turned to the man who'd spoken, studying his cuirass – a very historically accurate one – his rounded face and tanned skull without an inch of hair. He smiled at her, an easy-going expression, coaxing her to find something worthy of a duel. The young woman didn't hesitate a moment as her hazel eyes met her opponent.

— "A bow. A Sarmatian bow. Carved and strung by the best archer of his time."

Kristan's breath hitched, interrupting his movement as he circled his prey. His bow. She was ready to give up Tristan's bow. To give it back to him. Wow. His heart missed a beat, his mind blank. He still had troubles accepting that he'd been this fearsome knight, the man she called the best archer of his time. But Frances wasn't one to give false praise. Kristan could only nod in assent, lost in the intensity of her gaze. Then, the corner of her lips twitched in amusement. Perhaps she was confident enough, and didn't consider losing. Cheeky lady; she'd gone a long way from the shy woman who stepped into the fifth century. Kristan's shock eventually faded, and he resumed his assessment of her weaknesses and strength, remembering the fight against dark elves. Suddenly, he remembered the way she'd shoved him aside before the battle. She'd used her hand-to-hand training a lot during the battle, skills he did not have. Hence his tense query.

— "No dirty fight either, uh?"

The Keeper of Time bowed to him, sword at the ready.

— "Nay, sir Kristan. Sword fighting only, with honour. I'd be sorry to eviscerate you"

— "If you spill his intestines, you wash!" came another crusader's comment, proficient enough in English to have picked up the whole conversation.

Laugher echoed in the hall, covering Kristan's first attack. Ding! Their swords connected, the strength of his blow surprising Frances who adjusted her grip on her elvish blade. Pain shot up her arm. Damn it, she was so sore she could sleep on the ground right now! And Kristan definitely had muscle memory of his past life; his blows were strong enough to disarm anyone lacking experience.

— "Do you mind if we warm up a little?"

Kristan nodded his acceptance, turning at once into full instructor mode. They sparred easily, he leading, she responding. Just like on the battlefield of Badon Hill, where Frances followed him into hell. Left, right, left, right, upper left, down right, upper right, down left. He still moved with liquid grace, his gestures a little less harsh, more elegant somehow. Probably the dancing. But the strength beyond the blade left no doubt. More than a dancer, he was a warrior. Frances was only too happy that he took the lead; it gave her some time to assess his fighting style. She had been too busy keeping the dark elves at bay to study it during the battle. So many of his moves were just Tristan's, most of them not even conscious as he slashed and parried. Embedded in his soul, the memories available for him to use. Still, he was slightly slower than the scout had been, and sometimes left his lower side open. Thank Legolas for his extensive teachings. This was an exploitable weakness.

At last, and after many whistles from their spectators, Frances felt warm enough to start the duel. The little session had done some good; her right arm had regained its full range, and her legs were less stiff than at the beginning. The additional bruises she still felt, as well as the gash at the back of her left shoulder. Fortunately, her elvish blade was light enough to be used one-handed. Silence descended upon the room, colleagues and fencing buddies watching them with wide eyes. Frances wondered what had called this envy to spar, perhaps the fact that she'd never had the time to learn from Tristan. The Saxon invasion had cut their time together rather short, before ending his life. A shudder ran up her spine, and Kristan frowned. She saw the uncertainty in his gaze; he wasn't quite sure he wanted to attack her either. Somehow, it felt wrong to go against one another, even in a friendly match.

— "_Hey! Get out of the dimensional hole guys! Stop staring already_," came an exasperated cry from aside.

Both opponents smiled, and then Frances attacked, her sword making a beautiful arc that was swept aside at the last moment. Kristan shocked by her speed, tumbled a few feet back. Pressing her advantage, she slashed left and right, before aiming at his shoulder. As he deflected her blade, Kristan fell backwards. Her blade slashed at his legs, and as his Dao came to chase it away, she rapidly ducked and redirected her blow to his throat. The blade stopped an inch from his skin as she grinned. Game over. Cheers erupted from his students and colleagues alike, comments flying around regarding the badass woman who'd kicked his ass so effortlessly.

— "You all right?" she asked, holding her hand out to him.

Despite the faint smile attesting of her victory, her eyes held a little worry.

— "I'm good," he answered, effectively clasping her hand into his own as she pulled him to his feet.

Kristan stumbled slightly, nearly crashing into her such was the strength of her pull. It would have been too easy to slump into her, and drag her in a senseless kiss, eh? Damn the public! Kristan let go of her hand reluctantly, taking his stance once more. His hair was getting into his eyes in a weirdly familiar pattern, and he blew it away.

— "Ready?"

— "Aye, sir," came her playful retort.

This time, Kristan was the one who attacked. He knew he shouldn't hold back, but his heart refused to deal blows upon her form. After all, he'd protected her for fifteen hundred years. Fighting her was highly unnatural. And he wasn't alone. Albeit Frances danced gracefully around her blade, her thrusts were refrained. Still, none wanted to surrender. The lady was a master at deflecting his blows without taking the brunt of it, moving quickly, dodging, feinting, and twisting around. Each time he thought he'd get her, her sword brushed his, sending him off balance. At last, the coldness of the leather covering her blade fell on his nape, blade turned upwards to prevent from harming him should he move too brusquely. How she'd dodged his last attack, he didn't know, but she certainly won round two. Cheers greeted the performance once more, and Kristan grinned. He'd seen her fight, he knew her to be good. But he didn't relent. Not yet.

Bowing to her, he lifted his sword once more. Frances' left eyebrow climbed her forehead in her signature expression, before she humoured him. This time, Kristan exhaled slowly, calling for the inner knight, calling for Tristan. It was the memories of his former self who'd saved his life in the last battle after all. One breath, two breathes. Kristan cleared his mind, relying on instinct only. Somehow, Frances seemed quite attuned to whatever he was doing, because she let him do so with awe. She missed him, the knight who'd died on the battle field. Her gaze told him so. Unmoving, the young woman awaited his attack, weary of his next move with reason. On the battle field, Tristan always waited for his opponents to fling themselves at him, only to sidestep and plunge his blade through their heart. Frances knew this; she wasn't about to fall for it. Kristan's eyes suddenly flashed, and he sprang forward, his thrust faster than lightning. Once more, Frances deflected, stepping aside in a very Japanese move – thank her training with Kastumoto and Saitō – but Kristan's blade was already harassing her side. Deflected once more, with less grace, and a slight stumble from her part. The strength of his blow swept her aside.

Frances took a step back, nodding respectfully, an undefinable light of pride shining in her eyes. Her attack came from the side, after she feinted right, and her sword arched to sweep at his legs. But Tristan was ready. His Dao met her blow for blow, the deadly dance getting faster, stronger, fiercer. Dang! Dang! Their swords clanged, dinged and clashed so many times that he lost the count. She, dancing around him. He, only moving when needed, graceful steps to shift his balance, his blows precise, lethal. And then, the impossible happened. Frances' grip faltered, and her sword went flying from her weary hand, surrendering to his superior strength. His Dao came at her neck instantly, his grey eyes boring into hers. She did not move a muscle, her lips slightly curved upwards.

— "Do you yield, lady?" came his smooth voice.

— "Gladly, Sir Tristan"

The name caused his eyes to widen, and she responded with a full smile. Even with her cheeks flushed a bright red, and sweat sticking at her brow, the sight struck him speechless. And the realisation that genuine fondness was directed at him. Grey eyes locked with hazel, and for a moment, the world just stopped spinning.

Cheering colleagues interrupted their silent communion, and just like that, they were back to being an engineer and a sparring instructor. Frances retrieved her sword, removing the leather band to sheathe it as Kristan tried to gather his wits. Many a crusader clapped him on the back, congratulating and commenting on how impressive their little dance was. Not many dared approaching Frances though, except for Erik, the balding man who had forced them to choose stakes. Kristan chuckled to himself. A company of medieval knights shying away from the Keeper of Time; this was unheard of! In the fifth century, people fled him like the plague. He didn't resent the loss of distance, for he had gained companionship in its stead.

The rest of the evening was spent exercising parries. And before too long, Frances was teaching beside him, swarmed with questions about her own skills. There were many looks shared between them during the course of the lesson; their silent communication transcended time. And when, at last, Frances gathered her garb to leave, Kristan found the courage to follow her on the parking lot.

— "You were impressive tonight," he said.

— "So were you. Channelling Tristan, right?"

Frances seemed to bite the inside of her cheek.

— "You noticed that, uh?"

— "If I had not, you could have severed my head. Some of his moves are characteristic."

Kristan chuckled, the gentle wind swiping his hair aside. Her eyes never left his, and for a moment, all was silent except the wild beating of his heart. It was now or never.

— "Listen, uh…"

The door banged open and voices echoed from the building. Not much time left.

— "Yes?"

Frances' open expression seemed hopeful. Kristan wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt. It was already too hot for his taste in this blasted country! Or was it the intense sparring session that caused him to sweat so profusely?

— "What about a picnic, on the beach, tomorrow night? I think we need to talk."

The young woman beamed at him, sending tingles down his spine.

— "Brilliant idea. I think it is just what I need to relax from…"

— "Your mission in the States …?"

Frances' eyes scanned the area, finding people, in particular Lucie, who seemed occupied elsewhere but whose eyes darted to them now and then.

— "Not here. I'll tell you later"

Kristan nodded, understanding the need for secrecy. His anger, though, was resurfacing and he gave her a stern look. Damn, he needed to keep his temper in check and breach the subject diplomatically. The words flew out of his mouth before he could think straight.

— "I would have rather liked sooner. "

She could have told him to piss off that he was no boyfriend of hers nor even a friend yet, that her business was her own and that she didn't need any coddling. She could have told him he wasn't entitled to direct her life, or be an overprotective ass, or that she was woman enough to take care of her own business, thank you very much. She could have reminded him that she kicked her ass not an hour ago and held him at sword point, that she was the Keeper of Time long before he had shown up, and didn't need his fussing, nor his anger. His ex-wife would certainly have taken her pick in all those disagreeable possibilities, yelling at him like there was no tomorrow, yelling at men, in general, and their outdated ways.

But not Frances. Her soft words held none of this anger towards him.

— "I know. Forgive me, I couldn't"

The former knight eyed her for a moment, wondering how, why and when he had earned the right to be treated with so much respect. Her contrite expression reminded him of Shrek's cat – wide eyes, lifted eyebrows, stars dancing in her irises – irresistible. Frances was genuinely sorry to have kept him away; Kristan had no choice but to relent.

— "I'll bring the food."

— "I'll drive"

The fencing instructor wanted to ask for more information; he was loath to leave. But Frances seemed exhausted.

— "You got yourself a deal."

His hand then landed on her shoulder, slightly squeezing the muscle to send her on her way.

— "Until tomorrow then, lady knight. Have some rest"

— "Until tomorrow, sir Kristan"

The title called a smile to his lips, making Frances' eyes twinkle. She was the only one in this damn country to pronounce his name correctly. It rolled on her lips like the sweetest of prayers, and the memory of her soft gaze accompanied him to bed this night.

* * *

[1] Not written yet


	11. Chapter 11 - Set the date ?

**_So, after clashing swords, they get to rest a little. Calm before the storm hehe…_**

**_To Koba: yes, they are being playful. Something I have learnt is that you can hide in plain sight, and make many comments without people reacting to any of it for different reasons. Frances and Kristan are in their own world now… I don't think they care much. And yes, your questions and comments help me a lot, so thank you. And you know Kristan … is he about to accept half-truths (knowing how good he is at getting answers, see the conflict coming?)? How is Frances going to work around the many secrets she cannot share? Especially since she doesn't want to lie, nor hold things from him. Difficult position, uh?_**

For the first time in its short electronic life, Frances' phone received a message from Kristan, enquiring about the hour she'd be available. It felt odd, after waiting for ten days to hear from him, that he had, at last, decided to use the number she had left him. Progress, right? Joy and stress mingled as she wondered, for the umpteenth time, what she would be able to tell him. If Kristan was as clear-sighed than the former scout, there would be no lying involved, for he would detect it right away. And honestly, Frances didn't want to. He deserved the truth. All of it, without filters nor concealment. But her hands were tied. The young woman sighed, her chest constricted as she stared at the screen. What time, then?

Six thirty was her answer, and she smiled as he sent a playful jab regarding his cooking. Wow. He'd been cooking rather than buying stuff. Good man, quite marriageable. And she loved his dry humour, very Nordic, a little British. Subtle. She, on the other hand, had not had a minute to bake anything and felt rather guilty. The memory of roasted animals and rabbit stew reminded her that she'd never cooked for the knights. Unbeknownst to him, Kristan was just replaying their time in the wilds. How she missed the knights sometimes. Even if she'd known them for three weeks roughly, she'd become accustomed to their presence. Gawain's gentle nature, Galahad's complaining, Bors's boisterous voice; such a contrast to Dagonet's silent ways. She even missed Lancelot's flirting when his dark eyes twinkled in mischief, and Arthur's soothing presence before he slapped his friend's shoulder to shut him up. But most of all, she missed Tristan. His name always sent a pang to her heart, the taste of failure settling in her mouth. The consequence of her choice on the battlefield as she took the bolt for Lancelot, and left him to die.

Frances shook her head angrily. Now was not the time to reflect on his death for the man was very much alive. Tristan was back, even if slightly different, and she should be grateful for it. Those regrets could go to hell. Another issue danced in her heart, though; this kiss. What had Tristan meant to convey, kissing her with such passion before they rode to their death? Was it just a fling, a heartfelt goodbye? Did it mean more? Did he still feel the same way? How could he, when he barely remembered her? For years, Frances had wondered, never finding an answer to that. If Tristan had lived, she might have been able to ask him. But she had buried him, and with him, emotions that she couldn't characterise.

The afternoon dragged on, an endless pleasure of pointless meetings and random clicking on a moribund software. How many tickets did she answer during the week? Were customers satisfied? How many bugs had she found? Were they fixed? Closed? Sent back to her to ask a stupid question to be removed from statistics? Arrrgh! When at last, the clock approached 5.30, Frances decided she had had enough absurdity for the day. Switching off her computer, she deftly swung her bag over her right shoulder – the left one protested still – and escaped the hellish place she called work. Her colleagues would probably stay an hour or so more, to roam Facebook pages in hopes that their managers believed them hard workers. Deception was legion in this office; how she hated it. Why had she refused to work for the SGC again? Because she wanted to keep the Keeper of Time a secret, and a little independence from the US military? Right. Her choices in life made sense; it didn't mean she had to like it.

The heatwave that spread through Europe ensured that it would be a nice evening. As soon as she was home, Frances baked a few chocolate financiers in a hurry before slipping on her swimming costume, a long casual dress, and rolling her hair into a bun to protect it from salt and sand alike. The sweet smell of sugar and butter caused her stomach to growl, and she shoved into a bag the necessary items for a late picnic. A towel, forks, tissues, a light vest if needed. Once more, her mind travelled back in time. Six years prior, in an age where her heart was dedicated to Legolas.

After her talk with Daniel, she was pretty sure that her period of mourning for her former husband and lover was eventually coming to an end. Melenwë, her clone, was happy with the elvish Prince. The princess had evolved to mould her life to the requirements of her rank. Frances realised now that, albeit she'd been hurt and jealous at the beginning, she didn't want such a life. She had evolved, through many other missions as the Keeper of Time, through her time spent with SG1, into a strong, independent woman. She needed freedom, not submitted to the looks of immortal beings, nor their expectations. Melenwë was doing a tremendous job at it. A for Stephen, she'd recognised that her heart had been carried away in times of stress. She knew now that they would have fought teeth and nails because of his retrograde behaviour and old beliefs. The strength of her affection, for him, was similar to what she'd felt for brothers and companions in her life but still… All that Frances wanted was to be free. Free to travel, free of bounds, free to…

The intense beeping of her oven made her jump. 'Merde !', she cursed, retrieving the cakes from the offending machine before setting them in the fridge to cool down. Not very environment-friendly, but beggars couldn't be choosers. There were nary 5 minutes left to 6.30, and she wondered if Kristan would be the type to be late. The ring of her doorbell taught her everything she needed to know. No, he was Nordic through and through. She peeked from her balcony, calling at him from the second floor. From where she was, she could only discern a little blond hair and the back wheel of a bike. A bike? With this scorching heat? Was he trying to die of dehydration?

— "I need five minutes, do you want to come up?" she called down.

The lone figure took a step back, his long fingers shielding his eyes from the sun.

— "Hey Frances. Should I tie my bike down there?"

His smooth voice sent a shiver down her spine. Damn him, with this silky tone of his, having such an effect on her. It took her a second too long to answer, but at last her wits returned.

— "Er. If we were in Norway I'd say yes, but unfortunately, this is south of France. Think you can carry it to my flat?"

— "I can," came his nonplussed reply.

— "Hold on, I'll get the door for you."

The young woman hopped down the stairs, stifling a cry as her sore muscles protested against the harsh treatment. She wasn't about to stop living for a few bruises! Opening the door brusquely, she found a very drenched Kristan, sweating profusely from the ride, a heavy backpack resting on his hips. She reached for the bag with a huff of disapprobation as he got his bike on his shoulder.

— "Are you quite mad, Kristan? Riding in this weather?" she scolded as she got engulfed in the gloom of the corridor.

— "I don't have a car, little fairy. And the tramway is having a seizure again!"

The nickname appeased her slightly. Their steps echoed in the hall, the bike nearly scratching the narrow walls.

— "I could have picked you up, Kristan."

— "I figured you might want to change after work, and prepare a few things."

The young woman nodded, checking that Kristan was in no risk of toppling over in the stairs.

— "That was thoughtful. I'm sorry I'm late, I hate it."

The former knight took careful steps, replying in stride without bothering to look up.

— "You're not late"

— "Yet!"

Kristan chuckled, his panting a little more pronounced as they reached the second floor.

— "I've learnt that being on time tends to stress people out here. As if they're not expecting it"

Frances reached for her door, and turned to him with a meaningful gaze.

— "That's exactly the case. Most of the time, they're not ready for you to pop up."

Kristan's grey eyes twinkled slightly as he added:

— "I can't help myself, though. Punctuality is not a sin."

Frances smiled at the dry joke. She too, had trouble with the timing in the south.

— "I can relate to that."

The young woman gestured for Kristan to leave his bicycle in the entrance, and dropped the heavy bag aside before getting behind the kitchen counter. A sweating Kristan soon joined her on the other side, his long fingers resting upon the wooden surface as he caught his breath. His grey t-shirt clung to his lean form, and he swiped at his forehead with his wrist, causing loose strands to stick out awkwardly. Damn, he probably wasn't looking at his best right now! But again, Frances had seen worse, so why did he bother? Pushing those thoughts out of his mind – the little fairy was NOT interested – , he fished for more information.

— "Where are you from Frances? You have no southern accent, and do not seem to blend in so much with the locals."

She reached for a bottle of water and filled a tall glass to the brim.

— "I'm from Lyon. Lugdunum. Rings a bell?"

Frowning, Kristan seemed to recall some long-lost memories. It was frustrating to know that she had held similar conversations with his former self, and was the only one to remember them. How he longed to hijack her memory! Although her writings had shed some light already.

— "Actually, it does."

— "Yeah. Arthur asked me, and Tristan's eyes were boring holes into my face to catch up if I was lying. There. Drink up"

Frances pushed the glass into his hands, returning to the fridge to extract the cakes. She missed Kristan's wistful look as he drank to his heart's content. He could definitely get used to small attentions like this. Deep in his heart, he knew that Frances took care of people by default. He was only one of them … one amongst many. She was currently rummaging for something in her fridge, and shifted slightly to eye him warily.

— "Well, you know your way around my bathroom. I'll be ready in less than five minutes. You can take advantage of that time if you want to refresh. You're quite drenched"

Kristan wiped the sweat from his brow once more under her watchful gaze. He seemed quite ready to pass out.

— "Yeah. I roasted with this heat. I'm not so familiar with such weather yet."

— "Please call me next time, you should me more careful with this concussion."

Kristan's shoulders lifted in a shrug as he took his bag to the bathroom. It puzzled her and she blinked; never had Tristan moved a muscle without intent.

— "Will do," he launched before the door closed, a grin on his face.

'Next time,' she had said.

The smell of freshly baked cakes permeated in the car as Frances drove. The heat had slightly diminished as they approached the coast, a mere twenty minutes from her apartment. The young woman slowed down to find a spot on the sandy road, driving a few miles to a place quite devoid of people. The 'Petit Travers' was a great beach to rest. No bars, no city, only sand dunes and the endless sea. That also meant that once the sun was down, there would be no artificial light, but the moon was close to full and the sky spotless. A perfect evening to get to know each other.

Kristan secured the bag around his hips, his clean linen shirt quite loose on his skin. The sea breeze engulfed under the fabric, cooling him nicely. As she reached for her bag, Frances's eyes roamed over the fencing instructor, noting playfully that his tunic was quite similar to the one he wore fifteen hundred years ago. He obviously enjoyed loose shirts, and it suited him well. The natural shade of the linen contrasted with his sun-kissed skin, making the light of his hair brighter. A pair of sunglasses hid his grey eyes from view; the light was quite harsh today. The sight of him wearing such a modern equipement was quite surrealistic, but she'd have to get used to it. This man was born in 1975, no longer a knight of the round table. Yet sometimes, when his eyes got lost in the horizon and his mouth turned into a slim line, it was Tristan's face she saw.

They trod along the path between the dunes without a word, his long strides purposeful. After a while, the young lady chuckled, remembering how Tristan used to walk so briskly that she nearly had to run. Fortunately, Frances had always enjoyed walking.

— "Did I miss something?" came his amused voice.

Frances sent him a smile, marvelling that he was so open compared to the stern scout. The slightest of situation could elicit a quirk of his lips, the tiniest of mirth twinkled in his eyes. He was still a withdrawn man; he didn't laugh boisterously nor shouted at the top of his lungs. She doubted she'd hear him talk about himself in public. Yet, emotions permeated him, and she was more than used to pick them up in the expression of his eyes.

— "It is the first time I find someone who walks as fast as I do," she stated.

The young man paused a moment.

— "Ah. sorry, it is just my natural pace"

— "I know. It was Tristan's as well. He was always surprised I could follow whenever he started scouting. Long legs, uh?"

Kristan nodded, a little perturbed by the fact that she said 'he' when she talked about Tristan. There were at once the same, and different people. It was confusing as hell.

The sea eventually appeared before them, grey waters under the setting sun, white muttons of foam forming at the top of the small waves, the scent of iodine in the air. The beach was quite deserted, and they settled close to the shore. Kristan had brought a plaid, and started unloading glass boxes, fruits and a can of pâté he'd picked. There also were cinnamon rolls – the way Nordic loved it – and some dark bread typical of Scandinavia. It reminded Frances of her time in Norway, and her mouth watered.

— "Wow. This is a feast!"

Kristan's features brightened at her praise. Shyness forgotten; his lips curled into a full-bloom smile that took her breath away. Frances' heart leapt into her throat, frozen in place. Is this what Tristan would have looked like with a genuine smile upon his handsome features?

— "Well. You know. A knight and a princess have a night out…", he started.

Frances hoped her amusement would hide the tremors in her voice as she corrected.

— "A knight and a little fairy"

His lips pursed, Kristan wondered why she refused the title – wasn't her fiancée a royal? – but kept going. The question about the elf would have to wait a little lest she closed the door again. For people always commented on how aloof and unapproachable Tristan had been, or even how, today, Kristan put some distance between himself and the world with his silence. But Frances, with her false air of joviality and open manners, was another kind of oyster. She hid behind the façade, she gave love and affection without revealing who she was. From his time as Tristan – and his limited memory – he could not recall hearing more than a few words about herself, really. Except that she loved the outdoors – or rather hated being trapped indoors – and enjoyed the sea; something he had learnt as a ghost. Hiding in plain sight, offering bits and pieces to fit people's beliefs and needs. This is what she did. And he, for one, wanted to know the woman behind the mask. Would she let him in?

— "I only brought some water, since I didn't know what kind of beverage you like."

Frances dismissed his concerns with a gesture.

— "This is perfect. I'm not much of a drinker. Water is great for me. And I'm a difficult woman when it comes to wine. Blame my father, he's from burgundy. Speaking of which, if you'd like to sample some from the basement, we can arrange that"

Frances closed her mouth, aware that she was babbling nervously. Kristan raised an eyebrow. Burgundy wines? He was not a connoisseur, but it was worth a try. When in France, behave like a French. If this was an invitation, he would not let it pass.

— "Well. Someday. That would be great"

As the young woman's gaze roamed the waves, Kristan wondered if she was ill at ease. But then, she turned to him, eyes sparkling.

— "Fancy a dive before dinner? I need to wash the stupidity of this job away."

A dubious expression marred his sharp features.

— "Do you think it bathable?"

— "Well, it's probably over 15 degrees, right? You're Danish, after all. Don't you bathe in all kinds of frozen lakes and so?"

A smirk adorned his face.

— "This, my lady, would be the Swedish. We Dansk love your heart to keep beating. But by all means, be my guest."

He didn't miss the slight flinch at his clumsy jab – perhaps he shouldn't mention the moment his heart stopped beating under her palm – but the playful light in her eyes told him she wouldn't back down from the challenge. She didn't wait for him, shedding her dress hastily, and running for the water excitedly. The setting sun caught the fire of her hair, caressing her gently tanned skin, enhancing more curves than she possessed since he first knew her in Brittany. Her slender frame had grown, filling itself with muscle and a little fat. It suited her; she still moved like a cat, but on top of her efficient body was now a gentle layer of roundness that made his mouth water. God, she was beautiful! And her graceful gait as she stepped into the waves did nothing to deter him.

— "Damn, it's cold!" she yelped.

Kristan would have smiled fully had the bruises he'd spotted not worried him so badly. There were new cuts, and marks the size of a fist on her thigh and back. Even with the covering swimsuit she'd chosen – she apparently wasn't one for bikini – he could clearly see the wounds. For a moment, a wave of anger washed through him, and he clenched his jaw. Anger at the people who hurt her, anger that she had put herself in harm's way, anger at those who didn't protect her. Then he remembered how he had failed to do so a dozen days ago… Well. Maybe not so; she'd be dead without his intervention.

— "Come, Kristan. Don't leave me alone, surrender your feet to the water!"

She was nearly fully immersed now, her hair bound in a high bun, accentuating the noble poise of her head and slender neck, almond eyes teasing him. She seemed at ease in the water, as if she didn't have a care in the world. Her long legs appeared sometimes, dancing above the surface before diving again. Then, she swam back to him, facing the sky. Kristan stood up, advancing on the shore to allow the sea to wash at his toes. The icy wave surprised him so much that he jerked backwards, a shudder running up his spine. His latest dream popped in his mind, calling a wave of panic. The last strand of red hair sliding into a frozen lake, a giant warrior jumping after her with arrows raining around them. Angry words left his mouth at once.

— "Damn it woman, what is it with you, always diving into icy water!"

The tremor of his voice called her back to him, and she hurried ashore to face him. Water droplets ran alongside her body, tempting, as they disappeared into her cleavage. Her frozen hand lifted to chase away a blond strand hiding his haunted eyes. She didn't dare touching his face, albeit he yearned for it.

— "It is all right, Kristan. I wasn't harmed. Dagonet pulled me out, remember?"

— "No, I don't. I only see you falling into the lake."

Frances nodded, understanding his meaning. Whether in a dream or a memory, Kristan couldn't access the rest of the story by himself.

— "I wrote it all in the manuscript, so you know how it ended."

Recalling the event when Frances had saved Dagonet's life, and stumbled into the icy lake, Kristan huffed slightly. This damn vision carried so much anguish that he couldn't take it out of his head. It was stupid, really, because she was there, now. Unlike him, Frances had never died. She had been through hardships for sure, but her heart had never stopped beating. Kristan settled on the plaid again as the young woman wrapped herself in a fluffy towel. Her lips were blue, a stark contrast to her fiery hair and slightly tanned face. Crazy woman!

— "There will probably be a lot of hurtful memories for us to clear out," she said.

Kristan nodded. He understood what she meant, but didn't trust his voice to respond to that. Many of his memories were fuzzy. Images here, dread there, surges of emotions so powerful that he would wake up crying. At least, now, he didn't have to hide them. Frances' frozen hand hovered over his arm before she pulled out, unsure if the contact would be welcome.

— "Truthfully. I am surprised you remember so much," she whispered.

Kristan's gaze turned glassy; the onslaught of memories was quite recent as well.

— "I didn't before I met you. I dreamt of my death, mainly, and the blue devils. The manuscript and your presence seem to anchor my past life into this reality."

— "Are you all right with this?"

The former knight started inwardly, his eyes expressing disbelief. Did she not know how happy he was to finally understand this mess? Was the expecting him to reject her, to push her away or him to resume his normal life? Wasn't she aware that he wouldn't retreat for the world?

— "I will be, even if I must adjust. And if you are asking me if I regret meeting you again, the answer is no. I am happy we could be reunited"

Frances bit her lip to refrain from smiling too widely, relief flooding every fibre of her being. Kristan wanted her in his life! Her eyes went back to the sea, the soothing back and forth of the water helping her regain her composure.

— "You certainly are blunt. Tristan was as well, in a way, but most was left unsaid. It is a nice change, to have you voice things so easily."

A light smirk adorned his lips.

— "My family would throw a fit if they heard you."

Frances turned around, curious, as she searched his grey eyes.

— "Why is that?"

— "I don't speak much … to anyone."

This time, Frances reached for his arm, her long and cold fingers curling around his tunic in a gesture of companionship.

— "Ah, but you and I are not strangers. We understood each other back then, I want to believe we still do."

— "Aye. We still do, little fairy."

On a whim, Kristan covered her hand with his much warmer one. The contact felt like a bolt of electricity between them. Both retreated sheepishly, the former scout a little more stoic than his female counterpart.

— "But enough of this. I see you sport a brand-new set of cuts and bruises, care to explain?"

Frances secured the towel around her, her walls building up before his very eyes, the mask slipping back into place. She knew this tone; Kristan meant business. As he cut some bread to spread pâté over it, she started to recount the difficult week hunting dark elves to appease the NCIS section of Washington. She couldn't go into detail regarding the head of Homeworld security that currently was Jack O'Neill, nor the reason why the US airforce would eventually back her up. So she stuck to the main line. Dark elves had appeared, they'd been taken care of, end of the story.

Kristan's eyebrows were scrunched together, his hands mechanically spreading the pâté as his mind ran a thousand miles a minute.

— "And the US government is all right with criminals disappearing in a flash of light?"

His eyes held disbelief, and wariness as they interrogated her. Frances sighed.

— "I had back up to contain the event."

— "What are you hiding, little fairy?"

His voice was a growl, the spread ready for her, but held back, like a hostage, as his stormy eyes searched her face.

— "I should have known you'd ask questions. You could never take half-truths for an answer."

— "Nope. So please, the truth"

His voice was stern, deep and demanding. There was no way out of this. Betraying the US government – not that she felt any kind of loyalty – or betraying her knight? The answer should have been simple; Kristan knew how to keep a secret. But then, so did she, and she had been discovered by the SGC nonetheless. The danger was too great for him … even now, being involved in her life, could end badly because of her connections. She could not have been more grateful, for he didn't push, waiting for her to decide. And in the end, she found a solution that agreed with both her predicaments.

— "I can't Kristan, I'm sorry. I've signed non-disclosure agreement with the US military, and that means I'd be in very deep trouble if I talked about their part in this. And you might end up in prison as well. I can't, even though I very much want to"

Silence. Frances waited anxiously for Kristan to get angry, and for sure, his jaw was quite tight. Time ticked, agonisingly slow as she held her breath. It felt like the eerie calm before hell broke loose. Anytime now, Kristan would stand up and leave, hurt by her lack of trust. Anytime, she would watch his back retreat never to see him again, and she would resume her lonely life. Perhaps it was for the best; staying away from her would keep him safe. Now he had his answers, he didn't need her to figure out the past that haunted him. Perhaps he would be able to start anew. Frances trembled, struggling to accept her fate, when an angry huff escaped him.

— "All right. Fair game"

Relaxing, Kristan handed her the spread he'd prepared for her. The young woman held her hand out, openly gaping, as if she had trouble believing his reaction. Fortunately, Kristan didn't comment as he waited for her to take the offering.

— "No more of this, let us enjoy a nice dinner."

She would have cried, had her stomach not growled in hunger. What was it, with this man, that sent her in depth of despair or fits of joy ? For the moment, she was on a high wave. Accepting the spread, she eyed it curiously. Brown bread laden with all sorts of nuts, nice rosy spread upon it. It semtl delicious !

— "Thank you, Kristan. For dinner and for… the rest"

— "You are very welcome, for everything. As for the pâté, I do enjoy cooking, I hope you will find it up to your French palate"

The young woman couldn't wait to sink her teeth in the pâté.

— "Well, it was nicely prepared by a very marriageable man, if this tastes as good as it looks"

The pun caught him off guard, and his grey eyes widened slightly before he humourlessly grumbled.

— "Been there, done that"

Frances' face crumbled at her own stupidity.

— "Oh right. You said you were divorced. I'm sorry"

— "Don't be. I'm quite happy to be free."

Frances' breath caught. Would he ask about her husband? Kristan seemed to consider it for a moment, but said nothing.

— "How old are you, by the way? I think you are younger than Tristan was."

— "I very doubt that. I'm thirty-six"

Frances's eyes widened.

— "No shit!"

Kristan chuckled; she wasn't one for vulgarity. The exclamation translated thus the extend of her surprise. Well, this was flattering, and his smile only widened when he nailed it down.

— "Truthfully"

Frances did a double take on his face, on the faint lines at the corner of his eyes that wrinkled when he laughed, and the fitness of his body, at the slightly crooked teeth that made him look like a predator when he grinned. Thirty-six, incredible! When her eyes met Kristan, she couldn't help but blush at his smirk. She'd been blatantly checking him out!

— "Damn! I thought you might have reached thirty…"

Kristan shook his head, seriousness regaining his composure.

— "How old was Tristan?"

— "Thirty-one. But he looked wearier, very much older."

The weariness, he could still feel it sometimes; embedded in his soul like a flask of tar leaking out. His gaze turned sour, his lips pursing into a grim line. An expression so familiar that it called tears to Frances' eyes.

— "Fifteen years of service to Rome, roaming the wilds. I understand why he had aged prematurely. "

The young woman blinked, munching on her slice of brown bread. She wondered how much of his past self still lived in this new body. Of course, people didn't age at the same rate in the fifth century than now. It made sense!

— "Like it?" he asked, his chin pointing at the spread.

His question called a smile to her lips. It would take some getting used to, his social skills; Kristan was much more adapted to modern society if he could maintain the conversation flowing. Silence had never been uneasy between them, but hearing his voice, almost casual, enquiring about the food brought an unearthly amount of joy.

— "Yeah. Is it tasty, with an aftertaste of liquor and mushrooms. Thank you"

— "You're welcome, Frances."

For a while, both of them gazed at the waves, lost in their own thoughts. Frances wondered if she was going to be the silent one now, the one answering short sentences and protecting the secrets of her heart. Tristan, as a scout, only asked whatever was necessary for survival. He knew the strength of his unnerving gaze; silence led people to talk, and release in his lap all sorts of information. She had learnt from him, and realised that she had been applying his teachings to the rest of the world. Preventing people from knowing her, preventing enemies from gaining the upper hand, preventing friends from discovering her other activities – SGC or Keeper of Time – preventing family from asking why depression had struck so hard in the past. Preventing closeness, for it only could hurt.

But Kristan would have none of it. And even if his eyes didn't leave the shoreline, he still interrogated her.

— "But tell me, what about you? How old are you now?"

Well, didn't she feel young now!

— "Five years older than I was when I first met y … Tristan. Hence, twenty-seven now"

— "Damn, you were young!"

— "Am I not still?"

A deep chuckle echoed in his chest, making the hairs of her arms rise as the ripples of his mirth traversed her.

— "Yes. Yes, you still are."

Her eyebrows crunched in concentration, a quick calculation happening in her running mind, and suddenly, her face brightened.

— "This is funny. Tristan was 9 years older than I was. And you are nine years older than me."

Something akin to hope twinkled in his eyes as he eventually slid a glance back to Frances. The setting sun bathed his blondish hair in an orange glow, enhancing the sharp cheekbones that used to sport his tattoos.

— "Well. That is truly extraordinary!"

**_That's all folks! For today. There's not a lot of action there, they are just getting comfortable with each other and that's already not so bad. Next chapter will be a little more difficult, discussion wise. Brace for impact :D_**


	12. Chapter 12 - The choice of one's death

**_Hello everyone. So, I have been coaxed into posting a little more, and she was right since I might be taking a little trip to see one of my closest friends who just gave birth. I might not be able to post for a little while after that. You can thank Tobiramamara for her … er … persistence _**

Friendly conversation struck then, she asking why he'd fled to Montpellier of all places – he needed a change of air after his divorce, he certainly wasn't disappointed – he wondering where she'd lived, both recalling stories of their childhood home. Kristan had grown up in a loving family with an older sister. He told her of his studies, of his first job as an accountant and his passion for dancing until he turned to fencing. Frances recounted all the pranks she'd pulled with her brothers, and the close-knit her neighbours and family had formed. She told him of her first years of Training in Interpol – this was where the hand to hand came from! – and her military friends in the US although she never once mentioned anything about their job. The name of Daniel kept popping up, something Kristan stored in his mind for later. For the moment, he was soaking Frances' life like a sponge, storing, documenting her words in his mind as he studied the subtle changes of her features. Sadness, fondness, an eye twinkle here and there, her gaze lost into the waves the further she went back into her memory. Here, now, with the gentle lapping of the sea and the dimming light, she looked more at peace.

Trust. There was trust in her eyes whenever she met his glances. Most of them she didn't, for his eyes never left her form, roaming discreetly her face, her slender neck, the loose-fitting of her dress when it clung to her body under the breeze. She truly was beautiful when appeased. A fiery one when not! Gone was the little lady from the past; Frances had grown to be an impressive woman. She had more presence, more charisma than the Keeper of Time had in the first place.

Frances marvelled at this moment, realising that she had not talked so freely to anyone for years. He was still a good listener, like Tristan had been. At the time, though, the Keeper of Time couldn't expand on trivial things like her childhood friends, nor detail her modern life to the scout. Now, all barriers came tumbling down – except for the SGC. The main difference with Tristan, though, was that he participated in the conversation. That was a nice change. He was brighter, his heart lighter as well, even if burdened by his divorce and the weight of his past memories. The shift of his hair colour and eyes fascinated her, as if everything in him held more light.

At last, they ended up sprawled on the plaid, the chocolate cakes but a memory – their sweet taste still lingering in his mouth – , gazing at the stars as the moon only started to show up. Frances' hair, unbound to keep herself warm, tumbled upon her shoulders like a waterfall, cloaking her from the breeze. Kristan longed to touch them, to allow his fingers to roam from the tip to the very end of her silken strands. He would not dare, though; she was not his. Never would be, right? Still, he felt so peaceful with her presence by his side. A comfortable silence settled, a silence that was eventually interrupted by a heavy sight.

— "What is it?" he frowned, scooting closer to her.

Frances sat; her feature tainted with sadness.

— "There is something I meant to ask you, but fear to do."

His face was serious, his eyes intense as he straightened himself.

— "Tell me," he commanded gently.

— "You might not know, or even remember. It is something about your death."

Her hands were wringing, and his fingers shot to hers to ebb the tension away. Stilled by his contact, Frances could only gaze in his eyes. In the darkness, their light seemed to reflect the stars. It would have been so easy to get lost in them and forestall the dreaded question. But she would never be at peace if she didn't.

— "Ask away Frances, you're not one for stalling. I've dreamt about my death so many times now that I am not shocked by it any longer."

At last, she took a deep breath, and Kristan removed his hands from hers, regretting the warmth of the contact already.

— "Why did you seek death on the battlefield?"

The question knocked the wind out of his lungs, his features transforming instantly. This is what she thought? What she'd been living with all those years?

— "I did not."

There wasn't a hint of rebuttal in his answer, and she awaited for the rest of the story, her breath short.

— "The Saxon leader was fearsome. His men had led the battle for him, he was too fresh when he came into the fray."

Kristan paused, wondering how he could convey Tristan's motives without selling his feelings for her.

— "He wanted you, Frances. He needed to be worn out before Arthur could take him, I was the only one who could do it. "

Frances' eyes widened, tears struggling to surface, she repressing them with all her might. All this time, she'd believed Tristan had eventually searched for a hero's death. Resentment still bloomed in her chest when the memory of the scout, cutting a path away from her as she screamed at him desperately, invaded her mind. But now … now that the truth was laid bare at her feet, she could only realise that his last action had been, once more, to protect her, his commander and fellow brothers. How she'd misjudged him! His smooth voice rose again, seeking to appease her turmoil.

— "I did not know how to live my freedom, but did not wish for death."

This quiet statement was her undoing. The wave of anguish, shame and sadness would not be ignored as it swelled inside her chest, crushing her walls, upturning all principles, sweeping at her feet as the dam broke. A sob escaped her lips as she buried her face into her hands and she started crying like a girl, unable to stop the tears as all her sorrow found its release. She'd mourned him silently for six years, but never expressed her grief properly. Daniel was quite right, curse him! It needed to get out. Yet, she felt shameful for crying without restraint, especially in front of him! What would Kristan think, witnessing such weakness?

The answer came, unbidden, when a set of demanding arms circled her frame and pulled her tight. There was such peace in this embrace, such quiet strength that all decency was forgotten. She was soon curled up against Kristan, crying onto his shoulder. Her shame increased tenfold for putting this gentle, generous man into this awkward position. They hardly knew each other, after all, and Tristan had crying girls in horror. But he didn't let go, tightening his hold, showing how far his soul had evolved. For the first time in years Frances felt safe, free to express her grief. She sobbed for an awfully long time until her sorrow eventually subsided, and she felt like the biggest fool ever, crying for a man that was there. Yet, Kristan still held her, his warmth and safety surrounding her, his hand cradling her head gently.

— "So … sorry," she stuttered like a schoolgirl. "Sorry"

It was the only word that passed her lips. The intensity of her distress clenched Kristan's heart painfully as he tried to convey his feelings on the matter.

— "You have nothing to be sorry for. It is I, who am sorry," he eventually told her, his lips so close to her hear that she shuddered.

His words, instead of warming her heart, only dug a deeper hole. She was the one who abandoned him on the battlefield! She was the reason he was dead, to protect her once again! Straightening on his lap, she couldn't find the courage to meet his eyes, using her hair to hide from him.

— "I have every reason to be sorry."

The former knight shook his head sadly, his eyes shining in the dark. Her sorrow was so deep, so raw that he wondered how she lived still with such a gaping wound in her chest. Slowly, gently, he caressed her damp cheek, tucking an unkempt strand of hair.

— "Nah, little fairy, there is nothing you could have done."

Sadness still shone on her eyes, but deep within, something far more powerful was surging.

— "I could have… I should have! If only you had let me!"

Suddenly the mood shifted. Anger, blazing anger, directed at him for she stunt he'd pulled on her. For walking away, sowing all those Saxons between them like breadcrumbs to be picked, preventing her from following, signing his own death warrant. God, she was pissed! And barely conscious of it. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she eventually met his gaze.

— "Kristan, hear me out please. You remember that I wrote about Merlin's words, and the dream I had about the round table."

He nodded, his posture tense.

— "I do. I read it, mostly"

At last, the subject had been breached, and the slight shudder that ran through her body spoke of her unease.

— "I made the choice he asked of me, and I have wallowed in guilt for not coming after you when I had the chance. I didn't choose you, I took this bolt for Lancelot instead,"

Kristan frowned. The expression of her face, the tear tracks on her cheeks… He hated it. That look of self-loathing, or desperate anger. A look Tristan might have harboured more times than many after the hardships of his life. It was little wonder Frances bore this air of aloofness, the ice queen, they called her in the office. She couldn't let them see her inner layers when she was so wounded. How could he make her see?

— "Frances. You wrote it yourself that Tristan … that I asked not to choose me."

— "It didn't make it more right!"

She sounded like a petulant child, and Kristan dared hoping that maybe they would pull out of this discussion unscarred. The memory of her torn flesh, bolt protruding from her shoulder, reminded him exactly what that choice had entailed. Seeing her, so badly hurt, for the sake of Tristan fuelled his anger, even today.

— "No, it didn't. And jumping in front of a bolt … what a foolish move, I was so worried!"

Frances tucked her head below his chin with a sigh. Her form felt so right, safely ensconced in the circle of his arms that he never wanted to let go.

— "I hesitated a tad too long," came her muffled voice. "It was the only way to save Lancelot and I almost didn't make it. But it impaired me long enough for that horrible Saxon to…"

She couldn't say the words out loud, but her rage seemed to have abated, and his hand absently trailed the length of her bare arm at he gathered his thoughts.

— "Hack me to pieces. Yeah, I dream of it a little too often, always trying to find a way out. But there was no way out. I was spent, and hurt, and he was too strong for me. Even if you had come earlier, I would have died from my wounds."

— "Had it been a fair fight…"

— "War is unfair, Frances," came his smooth reply.

Frances leapt out of his arms, eyes blazing in the night as she stared him down. How had she come to safely tucked under his chin from standing in the split of a second? Her absence, he felt keenly, but it was the pure wrath directed at his former self that clenched his stomach into knots. She pointed her finger accusingly, her voice rising in the silent night, the light of the moon painting her form in shadows. Like a spectre of the underworld, her hair unbound, falling at her sides in a colourless cascade. Like a priestess whose Godess had been wronged, come upon the earth to punish the sinners.

— "You pushed me away to get yourself killed, Tristan! You left those Saxons in your wake to impair my progress. And I yelled at you, in frustration and rage, but you never acknowledged me. Not a look, nor an apology. Not even a goodbye! You left me, Tristan. You abandoned me!"

Panting heavily, Frances stood still, eyes widening at her outburst. She didn't mean to treat him so badly. Never before had she realised how angry she had been about his actions. The desertion, though, was like an iron red mark in her mind. Kristan watched her like a hawk, still seated on the plaid, his arms empty. Lips sealed, his gaze guarded, even from her. At last, Frances knelt in front of him, tears once more falling from her cheeks.

— "Forgive me. Forgive me … please"

Frances closed her eyes, exhaling a shuddering breath.

— "I am sure that if we had fought him together… Had you trusted me, the outcome could have been different! !"

Kristan's features softened; the storm had passed now, or so it seemed. He didn't feel guilty for protecting her … but could certainly understand her feelings. Had she pulled the same trick on him, his fury would have turned the world upside down. Eventually, Kristan touched her cheek, calling her shining eyes back to him.

— "Maybe. But I wasn't ready to put you in harm's way, and Lancelot would be dead."

Hanging her head, Frances cursed under her breath as she sat dejectedly.

— "Damn that dark knight! Damn Merlin! I loved you Kristan, you were a great friend," she eventually said. "Losing you, it broke me"

Bittersweet words; professing her love, yet calling him a friend when he wanted more. How he longed to ask about her fiancé! But now was not the time. The elf wasn't there, now, to ease her heartache. Scooting beside her, Kristan threw his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his side.

— "You need to let go of the past, now."

It was a command, as if the strength of his will alone could drill forgiveness in her soul. The silk of his voice reached her, like a benevolent kiss upon a sore knee, mending the horrible wound of his absence. Tristan was back, happier, brighter, granted a new life for his service after his death at Badon Hill. None of it could have happened had he survived … still. Her heart rate eventually evened out, her mind far away, on a grassy plain tainted with blood. She stood, like a statue, over the familiar face of a braided warrior. His features were peaceful, his beautiful cheekbones tattooed with the mark of his tribe, a slight smile gracing his lips. He was so handsome in death, as if his spirit had eventually found its way back to his homeland. Solace. A fresh gust of wind carried the scent of iodine to her nostrils, and Frances felt hope rekindle in her heavy heart. Let the Ocean wash over her aches, the waves carry the sadness away, the cold waters feed her with energy. Frances breathed deeply, oscillating in the endless sea like a rag doll, her fate no longer in her hands.

When she started to doze off, tucked against Kristan's side, her body started.

— "Well. I think it is time for bed," she yawned.

Kristan shifted, letting her go with a pang of regret. He would have welcomed a night out on the beach, curled against her, the plaid covering them as they slept. But it was not to be. Gathering his belongings, the former knight followed Frances's lead.

The drive back was merely silent, but not uncomfortable. Both had a lot on their mind, both wondering where they stood right now. It was a little disheartening, after the progress Frances had made with Tristan, to feel like she had to start from scratch. Kristan was a different man now, and all this past, this heavy loaded history between them was difficult to handle. And she had just shouted at him for actions that were not his own. Way to make friends, Frances! The memory of his arms around her, though, sent a pang of regret in her gut. It was such a safe and peaceful place, the circle of his arms, and the warmth of his presence. Taking a quick glance at his thoughtful features, Frances blushed. There was no denying that Kristan was a handsome man, one that called to her heart. But she held too many secrets to allow him to step into her life. She needed to keep him safe; she owed it to him.

It was close to midnight when they eventually came up to her apartment. Kristan sighed, gathering his belongings but Frances stopped him before he could grab his bicycle.

— "Wait!"

And just like that, she sprang to her room, and came back with the Sarmatian bow. She held it out to him, smiling as an incredulous expression washed over his face.

— "I am returning the weapon to its rightful master."

A surge of memories flooded through Kristan's mind, rendering him speechless. The endless sea of grass of his tribe the first time he'd pulled the cord taut, the amazed looks of his fellow knights whenever they competed, the shrill cry of Hawk when she hunted with him in the unforgiving woods of Briton. All of it came crashing upon it at the sight of the weapon. Kristan was not prone to stutter, but his next sentence was only a series of 'buts' and 'er' that never made sense. Eventually, he managed to whisper his awe.

— "Are you sure?"

Frances nodded. Trying to hide his shock, Kristan jested instead.

— "If I recall, I think you beat me yesterday."

His attempt at levity was washed away instantly.

— "Who cares? There can be no competition between us. Ever. Gawain gave it to me, stating that it would honour your memory. But I don't have the technique nor the strength … nor the height, as you pointed so justly in the first place. This bow is yours by right."

Eventually, Kristan relented, setting his hands on his beloved weapon. Muscle memory took over as he recalled its balance, and the way he could pull the cord taut to make the best of shots. His eyes shone brightly, his fingers deftly caressing the wood. The same awe that had taken hold of Legolas's features when the lady of the Wood had gifted him with a Lothlorien bow. Frances watched him with a lopsided smile, noticing the subtle similarities between Kristan and the elf.

— "I don't know what to say," he eventually whispered.

— "Then don't say a thing. Accept it, you'll take better care of it than I have."

A sudden suspicion rose into his mind.

— "You have another one"

Frances nodded, wondering how much he recalled from the day Galahad had berated her on the way to properly care for her weapon.

— "Yes. The one I had when I came to Brittany, carbon fibre and all."

Kristan remembered how her posture was slightly off to shoot the double recurved bow on the LARP event. Of course, it wasn't the weapon she'd learn to shoot with. A sudden pang of jealousy threatened to take hold of his heart, and he quelled it mercilessly.

— "But that's not the one you learnt with, right?"

His tone was controlled, his knuckles not yet white on the wood. But tension was spreading along his spine, kneading his muscles, blocking his nape up to his jaw.

— "No. I also have an elvish bow. I'm more proficient with those, but always carried yours. It was a way to keep you close."

— "Yes. I've seen that your technique is adapted to another type of bow."

Frances's nose scrunched at his words, wondering is that sudden hostility had anything to do with her poor technique.

— "Of course, you have."

The sudden tension had caught her off guard, and she saw his face darken in the dim light of her apartment. At once, she recalled how Tristan's long fingers had clamped over her throat on that first night.

— "This elvish bow. Is it Legolas?"

— "No, it is not."

Kristan simmered silently at her defensive tone. As if there was another secret to hide. The way her heart still belonged to that blasted elf, he was sure! Lost in the turmoil of his emotions, Kristan could not fathom that her the bow was a gift from Melenwë, and that she couldn't share about the way SG1 had brought it back to her.

— "Did you find him? Your betrothed?"

He'd said it as if the very words scorched his tongue. Frances repressed the urge to step back, meeting his gaze squarely. Damn, he could be so intimidating when he towered over her like this, his grey eyes brewing with a storm! Albeit everything in her body told her to flee, Frances held her ground. What could she possibly answer? That she'd been cloned by an Asgard, and that her clone had been sent to middle earth while she stayed on earth to continue serving the Valar as Keeper of Time? How could she explain such a thing without transgressing the nondisclosure agreement from the SGC? How badly she wanted to tell the truth, but she was tied. Was there a way around it?

— "I … more or less," she huffed.

— "That's not an answer," came his stern reply.

His tall frame hovered over her; pressing his advantage. He'd done it so many times as a scout, gaining information his brothers couldn't pry out of people. But she wasn't an enemy. Suddenly, his hand shot up, enclosing her wrist in a tight grip. She was stronger than him now, not in terms of raw power, of course, but she could shake him off easily. He wasn't the warrior Tristan used to be. Yet, she allowed it, hoping the contact would appease him. A subtle sign of submission, to remind him she was no enemy.

— "Tell me. Did you find your betrothed, or not? I want a straight answer"

Frances' temper rose, and it was all she could do not to yell back at him. It was, after all, past midnight and her neighbour would give her hell if she woke her daughters. But the righteous indignation boiled in her veins. What right did he have to demand anything about her life? She almost spat it out, but exhaled slowly instead. Keeping her voice levelled, she quelled the fire of her heart to choose a different path.

— "Why does it matter so much, Kristan? What is the real answer you seek?"

Kristan's fingers shifted, cradling her wrist instead of retaining her in an iron grip. Damn it! He needed to keep his temper – Tristan's temper – in check lest he lose her completely.

— "It matters…"

His voice faltered, his gaze falling upon the tender skin of her inner wrist. He couldn't bring himself to say it, couldn't look at her in the eye. He had been a fearsome warrior fifteen hundred years ago, the terror of the fort, the spectre of death to the Woads, and he still felt totally inapt to voice his feelings. Sighing, Kristan let go of her arm, and turned away. In his left hand, the familiar wood of his Sarmatian bow reminded him who he was, who he had been, and who he wanted to be. Tristan was dead, but he carried his teachings within him. And no matter how ruthless the warrior had been, he had never harmed a woman outside of battle. Sarmatians revered women, respected their mothers, and worshipped their wives.

His Sarmatian mother would have had his hide for treating a lady thus! His modern one as well, phew !

_**There. Bear with me, your patience will be rewarded. Next chapter starts the real crossover with Stargate. What, no kissing ? No… not now. Evil me. Lots of interactions though, between Frances' friends and Kristan. Let us see how a Sarmatian scout holds his ground in tough situations. Honestly next chapter is more… comical than this one which is quite somber. I hope that your concern about Frances and Kristan discussing her choice to save Lancelot has been addressed properly now.**_


	13. Chapter 13 - Redirection

_**Hey.**_

_**If you want to follow Frances and Kristan's adventures in the stargate world, you can read the story entitled "Hunting King Arthur". For those who have started already, you are currently at chapter 5.**_

_**Those chapters used to be part of "the lone knight" story but it was quite complicated classification wise. I therefore return "the long knight" to its original category King Arthur, and took the chapters regarding Stargate into the Stargate section, under "Hunting King Arthur".**_

_**You can therefore continue reading the lone knight, knowing you might miss a few things, but overall not to much if you do not wish to delve into the Stargate world. I will post notes in the beginning of each chapter for the readers who want to stick with the original story only.**_

_**I hope this is clear enough !**_

_**Cheers to all**_

_**Added note 17-11-2019.**_

_**Hey, chapter 6 is up and running. It is called May the Valar guide your path in the 'Hunting King Arthur' story, in the Stargate section.**_

s/13433891/6/Hunting-King-Arthur


	14. Chapter 14 - The aftermath

**_So. Kristan and Frances are back from their little trip in the stars. For those who haven't read it, it is listed under the Stargate SG1 section, 'Hunting King Arthur' and picks up after chapter 13. This is the continuation, coming right after the last chapter of 'Hunting King Arthur'._**

**_For those who are not in the mood to read it, quick summary: Frances and Kristan were picked up by Jack O'Neill to join the SG team to a planet called Camelot. There, they fought a hologram of Lancelot, and Kristan regained his Dao. They also found Merlin's library there, and while the rest of SG1 joined the war against the Ori, Kristan and Frances were left behind looking for clues on the Sangraal. They found a picture of the knights and Arthur, were Kristan and Frances are depicted as well. This means they will get back in time again to meet them. The status at the end of the story is: the library has been burnt, and the galaxy is overrun by the Ori. It is only a matter of time before the overtake earth._**

**_Anyway. I believe you have anticipated this chapter for a while now. Long overdue? Maybe. I hope it was worth the wait! Cheers to all my readers, faithful reviewers, and unknown guests alike _**

**_Koba, thank you so much for you long and detailed review. I hope this chapter will make up for the long wait since this story had been started, hence since Frances' arrival in Tristan's life. So yeah, hopefully, we should get that kiss…_**

At last, they were back! Beamed directly down from the Odyssey on wobbly feet, at night, of course. Frances spared a look at a shaken Kristan; he seemed as exhausted as she was; he'd probably crash in the guest room again. Not that she minded; tomorrow what a non-working day, they'd have all the time in the world to debrief around a set of Scandinavian waffles. Dropping her gear in the entrance, she wiped her eyes wearily and made her way to the kitchen. The terrible heat of Montpellier permeated through the apartment; the smothering stuffiness of a southern city in summer. Suddenly, Frances wanted nothing more than to shed the SGC long sleeved shirt.

— "I need some tea. You game?"

A grunt responded as Kristan leant on the kitchen counter, looking dead on feet. Dealing with the aftermath of a battle in her flat was starting to be standard issue. At least, this time, there was no stitching to be done. He had held his own magnificently given the complexity of the situation, especially as he battled Lancelot's hologram. This had been quite shocking, and she was only proud that out of the two of them, they'd been able to disarm the ambidextrous knight. A mighty feat! She would almost hear Teal'c voice attesting 'indeed'.

It felt so weird, sometimes, to put water to boil in a normal kitchen after such an adventure. Spaceships, beamers, holograms and stargate didn't prepare a sane individual to struggle with a heater breakdown or a scaled boiler. Muttering about the 'rock's juice' that was Montpellier's tap water – she never had to unscale her boiler in Norway – Frances's mind reeled about the Ori invasion occurring right now, too close to home, and the implications of Merlin's long-lost weapons disseminated in their galaxy. The fact that SG1 had eventually survived this first battle was nothing short of a miracle. She had come close to losing Sam and Daniel again. At least, he'd refrained from dying this time. But they were alive … and she had burnt a thousand-year-old library. Well, Kristan had, to protect her feelings. And even is the situation seemed rather desperate for now, she had hope that SGC would eventually find a solution. Where did Merlin fit in that mess? And Arthur?

Damn. It didn't make sense!

— "Who is Princess Melenwë?"

Frances groaned - Damn Cameron Mitchell ! Kristan's question reminded her that the water was ready, and awaiting its tea leaves. And that he would not be deterred this time; she had promised answers before they got dragged into this whole mess, and was quite impressed that the events of the last days had not impaired his ability to ask the right questions. Taking the boiler off its base, she opened a tea bag before answering.

— "Melenwë is Legolas' wife."

Kristan stood, his shoulders weary, as he rounded the kitchen counter to stand directly in front of her. The subdued lights did nothing to diminish the intensity of his grey eyes, and once more, Frances felt trapped in his gaze.

— "How?" he voiced with sadness. "How did your betrothed end up married to another?"

Frances shrugged. The pain of surrendering Legolas to her clone was mostly gone now, and she had grown to be a different woman than Melenwë. With different needs.

— "She is not exactly another. It is rather complicated."

— "For God's sake woman, give me a straight answer!"

The tone of his voice was enough to make her wince. In this very moment, she remembered Tristan's painful grip on her shoulders, shaking her, when he voiced his discontent. She took an involuntary, a very unfortunate step back. Kristan's gaze froze in horror, and he too, put a little distance between them, hands up in surrender.

— "I won't hurt you, Frances. Surely you know that?"

— "I know. I'm sorry… Tristan could get quite physical sometimes. I'm too tired to think straight."

Her explanation, rather than appease him, seemed to send him in an abyss of shame.

— "Did I … did he ever hurt you?"

— "He might have left a few bruises. Nothing serious. I admit that I might have pushed him to the last stretch of his sanity. Hell, he… you could absorb a lot for a man of the fifth century."

The excuse of every beaten woman in the world. Her fault. Kristan's grey eyes searched her, features sad until his jaw clenched into a determined expression.

— "It will never happen again. I might be gruff, and have a temper. But I will never leave a bruise on your skin, do you hear me?"

He saw the moment Frances repressed a huff; she was too tired to argue about his gruffness, even if he knew she disagreed. Instead, she reached for his forearm gently, her fingers tightening around the thick cotton t-shirt that threatened to make him burst into flames. Damn this country with this blasted heat !

— "Aye. I believe you Kristan. The fifth century was a violent place, I never blamed him, don't blame yourself."

Kristan nodded, accepting that her reaction belonged to the man he used to be. But he took silent vow to himself, the vow to protect her, care for her, and never, never lay a hand upon her skin. The young woman sighed, putting her tea leaves aside. Now that Kristan had witnessed the technology of the Asgards, and signed the non-disclosure agreement, she was at liberty to divulge the truth. Said truth, though, was a difficult notion for him to put up with. Especially in such an exhausted state. Lifting her eyes to his, she was surprised by the swirl of emotions that danced in his grey eyes. As if the information she withheld was capital to his life. Shuddering, she breathed out before trying a quick summary.

— "Loki, an Asgard, agreed to clone me and drop it on middle earth. This other Frances found Legolas, married him in my stead, and changed her name to Melenwë to become the princess he needed to rule Ithilien"

Kristan's breath hitched.

— "A clone?"

— "Yeah"

The poor man was struggling to gather his thoughts, and she couldn't blame him such was the craziness of her life.

— "So it is…"

— "Me. But not me anymore. I am connected to Melenwë. She was the one who warned be about the dark elves the night of the role play."

— "How?"

— "In my dreams. We speak in dreams. Long story"

Suddenly, Kristan braced himself on the kitchen counter, his face deep in through, the lines around his mouth tightening. Frances's hand came to rest upon his wrist, feeling the turmoil of his heart, but failing to understand. She hated it; to see him so upset because of her.

— "Why, Kristan, why does it matter so much?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, his voice but a whisper.

— "I…"

Nothing else passed the seal of his lips, and Frances frowned. After what they'd just been through – dark elves and Camelot quest alike – she entertained the hope that they might be friends.

— "I told you the truth, please grant me as much."

Kristan's eyes flew open, their depth even more troubled than before as he shifted to face her. Standing tall, he was now but a few inches away and she had to lift her head to see him properly such was their difference in height. How ironic that even towering over her like this, he seemed so insecure. Had she not felt so utterly lost, Frances would have found him adorable.

— "I am not good with words," came his smooth voice, the silk of his tones caressing her mind.

Kristan bent forward, his hand lifting to bestow a feather touch on her cheek, his eyes so intense that her insides melted. Trapped in his gaze, she could barely think straight as his fingers curled at her nape, warm and gentle, but demanding. Frances let him tilt her face up, wondering for the umpteenth time why her body obeyed him without protest, why it hummed so easily when his hands touched her. And when his full lips captured hers in a hesitant kiss, her knees buckled. The contact was so sweet, so soft, like the caress of silk on her skin while his fingers stroke her nape, his warm breath mingled with hers. It didn't last long enough, his lips eventually hovering over hers, as if he didn't dare touching her anew but couldn't pull away. His hand travelled down her spine, leaving a trail of fire, when his raspy voice found the words he was looking for.

— "This is why."

Kristan took a step back, and studied her face, his gaze impassive. For a moment, Frances could only gape at him; he so resembled Tristan the day she'd left him in the stables. The same guarded look, the same longing in his eyes. Was it possible that …? She felt so lonely, now that his body had left her proximity, and despite the smothering heat she wanted nothing more than to step into his embrace. Her mind, though, was struggling to make sense of it all. And suddenly, it clicked. Tristan loved her, really, truly. And she was too damn engrossed in her own loss to understand it!

— "I … er. I'm at loss for words right now. Are you saying that …?"

She couldn't voice it, her heart was beating too fast, too hard for her mind to function. Her hesitation, though, was perceived as rejection. She saw the exact moment when Kristan's temper flared.

— "It is important because I want you, damn woman! For fifteen hundred years, I have waited for you. And I wanted you even there, in the fifth century, but your heart was set on another"

Stunned, Frances felt like she'd been hit by a truck. That was the most courageous confession she had ever heard. Kristan had bared his heart for her, laying it at her feet in blind faith. And she needed to answer, fast, because his walls were rising up once more. As Kristan turned away, she grabbed his hand. He didn't answer the pull, stilling instead. Shoulders hunched, muscles tense, immobile like a statue, expecting her words like the verdict of a man condemned to death. She had no idea what to tell him regarding her affections; she'd been too engrossed in the recent events to question her feelings. There would be time enough to interrogate her heart in detail. But somehow, she owed him the truth. So she approached him from behind, and, shyly, set her head on his shoulder in an affectionate gesture. Tension slowly leaked out of his muscles as he accepted her awkward gesture.

— "My heart is free of those bonds now."

Kristan's heart leapt into his throat before his rational mind fled his body. Free at last! At once, he turned around, gathering Frances in his arms without a second thought. His lips crashed onto hers, his hands running along her spine, crushing her against his chest. A yelp escaped her before she answered his passion with equal fervour. He felt the heat of her hands as they roamed the broad expense of his back, the tightening of her hold on his waist, and the fingers exploring his nape. Kristan had trouble breathing, his heart hammering like there would be no tomorrow, his lips moulding with hers in the most sensual of dances. Her scent was everywhere, and he couldn't have enough!

Kristan knew he was losing his mind and he couldn't care less; it was his to give away. And when her tongue caressed his lips, all manners of self-control fled him. He hoisted her up on the kitchen counter; wrapping her legs around him in the most intimate of embrace. Frances squeezed him tight, melting against him as her little tongue entered his mouth. A moan escaped him, a whimper responded. Kristan trailed kisses along her jaw, dropping to her neck, tasting her like a starved man until he sucked at her collarbone. Her t-shirt was on the way, too much clothing, and so little skin! He craved her nudity so badly, and couldn't stop his mouth from discovering every inch of exposed patch. In a swift movement, her t-shirt went flying to the floor, exposing her collarbone.

His arm pressed her against him, and she rocked her hips with a moan, angling backwards so sensually that he nearly took her here and there. The only thing that kept her aloft was his arm supporting her back, her spine arching around him, her fiery hair yearning to be unbound. Kristan gathered her once more, and picked her up without breaking his kiss. For fifteen hundred years he had waited to make her his; the kitchen counter didn't reach his standards. Dragging her along the corridor, he paused before the guest room, panting so heavily that his sheer will was the only thing that kept him standing.

— "No," she said.

Kristan's mind froze in fear.

— "My room"

Her hand found his, and she dragged him inside, cheeks flushed, breath short. The air was slightly cooler for her bedroom overlooked a small garden; it wasn't enough to smother the fire than ran through her veins. The door closed forcefully when Kristan backed her against it, lips demanding, his lean body claiming her entirely. She responded to his ministrations with burning desire, her hands gathering the hem of his t-shirt and pushing it over his head. Kristan grunted as the fabric fell to the ground in a heap; it took his lips away from hers for a moment too long. She was so sensual, her incredible body full of energy, hips moving with liquid grace against his. In a few precise moves, her pants were also discarded. The bruises didn't matter more than the aches and cuts. They were battered, weary to the bone, but nothing could desacralise this very moment.

Kristan picked her up effortlessly, laying her on the bed, his eyes roaming over her perfection. Frances was every bit the lady he'd imagined she would be. Full breast, soft skin, tight waist and rounded hips. In an impossible effort to control himself, Kristan sat beside her, unfastening the elastic band of her haphazard braid and dragging his fingers through the silk of her hair. His fingers trailed down the length of her strands, landing low upon her hips, then trailing up anew. He was fascinated by the cascade of fire, the colour contrasting with her creamy skin, memories of the past overlapping the present. His lips found a spot on her shoulder, tracing the angry scar from the dark elves.

— "Frances," he whispered.

— "Yes, Kristan"

How he loved the sound of his name rolling on her tongue, the slight accent pronouncing with reverence. A part of him refused to ask, but he knew he would be unstoppable once he crossed that bridge. He respected her too much. And so, as his hand trailed up her neck, caressing her cheek, he uttered the fated question.

— "Are you sure … ?"

Frances bit her lip, thinking deeply, and he couldn't help but hold his breath. If she rejected him now, there would be no mending his broken heart. Now that he knew the softness of her lips, the beauty of her body moulding against him… Yet, he understood her confusion. She'd been through so much, sentimentally wise, that her emotions probably were all over the place. He had initiated it; he owed it to her to give her some space to decide. At last, her features brightened, and she turned to face him fully. Her eyes shone in the dim light of the room, begging for him to take care of her like a good man should. In this very moment, Kristan knew that he would die to keep her safe. Again.

— "Your touch feels right," she stuttered. "Yes, I am sure."

Kristan released a breath of relief, contemplating her hazel eyes, their depth pooling with desire and trust, and he could only marvel that he was the recipient of it. His hand snaked around her back, and as he pulled her to him, marvelling at the softness of her skin under his palm, she met his eager mouth with enthusiasm. Her underwear, simple cotton garments, joined the rest on the wooden floor without further ado; he wasn't one for games. Kristan didn't get time to marvel at her naked body as her hands fumbled with the buttons of his pants. He removed them forcefully, tearing at the seams in his impatience, his boxers the only remaining item that kept him from being naked. He wondered, for the split of an instant if she would find his body as magnificent as he found hers. Surely not, for nothing could be more beautiful than the sigh of her soft curves! How wrong he was.

At once he enclosed her in the safety of his arms, covering her from head to toe as his hands pulled her tight. A droplet trickled down his spine, his skin covered with a thin layer of sweat; her own body didn't fare much better in the warm night. Yet he couldn't flee from the warmth of her soft skin, seeking to engulf her entirely. His desire throbbed almost painfully on her warm belly, his control hanging by a thread; she deserved a loving embrace, not a forceful one. Albeit he was quite aware of the need and demand of his gestures; there was only so much control left in his bones.

— "Frances, do we need …?"

— "No. I am protected"

A relieved sigh passed Kristan' lips; there was nothing he wanted less than fumble around in search of a condom. She probably was on the pill, but it wouldn't protect her from the rest. She couldn't care less, and her trust flooded his chest with pride. Hence he covered her skin with kisses, from the sweetness of her mouth to her inner thigh, eliciting moans and gasps along his trail. Soft sounds; Frances was a quiet woman – as discreet as he was – and he revered every whimper that his ministrations could muster. And when, at last, he came back to her lips, his desire increased tenfold. Her legs welcomed him, creating a haven for him to plunge in. Latching, once more his tongue to hers, his underwear discarded at last, it was all he could do not to thrust in like a wild animal. She was taut and soft at the same time, her hips rising to meet his, her arms massaging the muscles of his back with such force, such need that he knew she was ready.

— "Please, Kristan, please…"

Her plea was enough to shatter his self-control, and with one slight tilt of his hips, he joined his body to hers. Pleasure exploded so intensely that Kristan gasped; she was so tight around him that he wondered briefly if she'd ever been touched! But there was no resistance, only moistened warmth.

— "Oh my God," came her rasped moan, her back arching on the bed as she gathered fistfuls of sheets between clenched fingers.

Kristan should have laughed as the surprise laced in her voice, but he only managed to grunt an equally stunned reply. Frances, her face filled with awe, was the one to pull him further into her. A trembling sigh passing her lips, eyes wide, as she accommodated him to the hilt. Her walls moulded around his as if they'd been created for each other, muscles contracted, rubbing him in the most mind-blowing massage he'd ever experienced. It was all he could do to keep a rein on his instincts, his hips rocking back and forth already. All control surrendered. Finally! After fifteen hundred years of waiting, of love and desire, he couldn't believe it. She fit him like a glove, her body perfectly attuned to his, her sweet softness surrounding his taut core.

Deep breaths he couldn't take; his mind all but shattered at the ecstasy. His body, though, knew how to perform the most primal of dances. She followed him heartily in the most sensual of choreography, his pleasure so intense that he felt he might pass out. Sweet abandon! Their lips connected anew, warm skin against skin, pace increasing as Frances meet each of his thrust, calling him to her, demanding, ordering him back each time he pulled out. Her breathing was heavy, erratic even, stopping every so often every time they connected intimately. One of his hands grasped her wrist above her head, but she would have none of it. Instead, her fingers laced with his; an attempt to feel closer, to surround him entirely, to provide him with the comfort of soft flesh and inviting core.

— "I am…", he panted.

The words didn't come easy such was the fire spreading in his body. Frances' other hand slid into his hair, her fingers enclosing his nape with strength. Kristan was lost at sea, his body leading his mind, his lips fiercely set on Frances' jaw as his hips set the pace. He wanted to slow down, wanted to take his time, to convey his love and yearning. But his body would have none of it – nor hers – all walls crumbling down in the face of this magical joining.

— " … out of control," he rasped.

It wouldn't be long now; she was on edge, so was he! Her flesh pulsated around him, humming its contentment, sending waves upon waves of pleasure in his entire body. Never before had he felt such mind-blowing sensations!

— "Let go … let go, honey," she whispered in his ear.

Enclosing her head with both hands, Kristan searched her glazed eyes, intent of accompanying her to the secret place than only lovers knew of.

— "Look at me"

And Frances obeyed until she could take no more, her body surrendering to the sweetness of his presence as her muscles spasmed around him, her gaze firmly planted in his, her mouth opened in a silent cry. Her peak swept him away like a tsunami, and she could only contemplate his beautiful features as he too, surrendered. A grunt, stronger than she'd ever heard, escaped his lips as his head fell over her shoulder. His body slammed into hers, deep, long thrusts that buried him further as he groaned his release. Until at last, he didn't know where her body stopped and his started. Each thrust sent a shot through her body, each of his deep, desperate moves calling her to snake around him, tighter, stronger. "Mine," came the erratic growl from deep in his throat, "Mine" he repeated in the hollow of her neck, breathless. And his words were so alike Tristan's that Frances could only lock her feet behind his legs, to keep him close as he collapsed on top of her.

Then tears came to her eyes, tears of relief, and joy that trailed down her cheeks silently. Her hands roamed the broad expense of his back as his panting subsided slowly, the heat slowly leaving them in this stuffy atmosphere. Kristan was spent, and basked in her embrace as he cooled down. Who would have known that he'd be such a sensual lover! He certainly didn't disappoint. Never before had she felt so loved, so cherished by a man. He was strong, and demanding, so passionate that she'd lost her will to think within the first five minutes, acting on instinct. Something that so scarcely occurred when it came to her needs; duty always came first. But Kristan had been her undoing. He was, somehow, manlier that anyone that had crossed her path beforehand, and she loved every bit of it. His commanding presence, his demands, his grunts and thrusts. This is how she understood that she'd outgrown her love for Legolas. She'd changed, altered her path when Melenwë had been sent back in her stead. Did the princess share the same sensations when her elf loved her? Maybe she did … and she wished her well. But today, she knew that no other man, or elf, could make her this happy. Kristan was there, back from the dead to love her, and his body was as efficient as it was handsome!

At last, Kristan lifted his head to contemplate her features, his breathing still heavy, awe painted on his face. Then he spotted the trails down her cheeks, and frowned instantly. Dragging himself on his forearms, he wiped a salty droplet with a tender gesture.

— "What is it, elskede?"

Frances smiled at the endearing term, beloved, in Danish, similar to its Norwegian counterpart. A very, very strong word for Nordic people, much stronger than the English 'love'. She could only marvel that it had passed his sensual lips, and she tightened her hold on his back.

— "I didn't know physical love could be so beautiful. Thank you, Kristan, I shall cherish this moment forever."

He kissed both her eyelids gently, taking his sweet time as his lips tasted her salty tears.

— "It is I, who wishes to thank you. Even in my wildest dreams, I never thought it would happen."

The young woman chuckled, her laugh reverberating through his chest.

— "Then now, you can say you are with the woman of your dreams."

— "Very true"

As he tried to untangle himself from her, Frances's hold tightened. Kissing his brow, she manoeuvred him so that his head rested on her chest. Then she wrapped her hands around his tall frame, pulling the linen sheet over them both. Her fingers buried in his beautiful hair, his uneven light and brown strands in total disarray, and started a soothing caress on his skull that descended to his nape. They were so soft, not unlike his sensitive skin, something she had not expected to find on a such a fierce fighter. Frances marvelled at her luck; it felt so right, the weight of his body resting upon hers, the warmth of his skin radiating in the sheets, the beating of his heart echoing through her chest and the soft breaths he took before they evened out. Frances thought he'd fallen asleep when his drowsy voice mumbled.

— "Are we, really, little fairy? Together, I mean?"

The uncertainty ringing in his tone told her how careful she would have to be with this relationship. His ego certainly wasn't inflated enough.

— "If you so wish it. I would be honoured to be yours."

— "I think I had been quite explicit."

Frances chuckled. Trust Kristan to be uncompromising; she guessed he didn't sleep with women on one-night stands. An anachronic man for an ancient minded woman.

— "Yes. Yes you have. Beautifully, if I may add. Then I am yours, and you are mine. Rest now, my handsome knight"

Kristan hummed slightly, his chest warmed by her words as he fell asleep. As she drifted off, Frances wondered how she had deserved his presence in her life.

**_Hey. So I don't write sex scenes very often. I like them romantic, and beautiful, and not too explicit. Despite the wildness of this particular one, I hope it renders justice to the deep feelings they both have for each other. Even if Frances is not entirely aware of hers at the moment. The body never betrays. Finally! The 'Nocturna' chapter from 'All Hail to the King' comes true aha. Congrats to those who had found the Easter egg in this one. (Koba: p)_**


	15. Chapter 15 - What morning brings

**_So … happy? Now they're together, the world had not stopped spinning. Still, they will get a little break before all hell breaks lose. Stay tuned for more fluff…_**

**_Koba, I hope you had a happy thanksgiving. I had forgotten about it, us French are more into preparing Christmas now _****_ Anyway, I'm so glad you loved it. And yes, Kristan accepts to lose controls with Frances, love is stronger no matter what. You made me laugh with your little tirade (pat on the back little lady). You're right though, there's much more to come. I think we're halfway through! Just starting to have fun, eh?_**

Frances's steps were silent as her feet trod the grassy trail. Beside her, Melenwë seemed to float in her ethereal gown. Her natural brown – with blond and rusty highlights – has resurfaced at the base of her long hair, creating a gradation along the incredible length of her mane. The henna lingered at the tips, deepening the reddish strands as they swayed upon her white shift. Frances wasn't a natural redhead, but it came quite close for her skin was fair, marred with freckles, and her hair sported naturally some streaks of rust when the sun glowed in the evening. The deep colour of the henna only served to enforce her status as the Keeper of Time, an unspoken agreement with herself from the day when, in ancient Roma, people had died her hair red to make her remarkable on the battlefield. The coliseum's witch.

Such a long time ago, more than ten years now … and Frances had yet to hang up the mantle of Keeper of Time. Something Melenwë had been able to leave behind as she became Legolas's wife and Princess of Ithilien.

— "It is not time, yet."

Frances nodded, not even wondering anymore how Melenwë could read her thoughts. Ever since their little soul reuniting in the dark elves affair, they were connected on an intimate level.

— "I know. But I wish for a reprieve."

A smirk adorned Melenwë's face, the ghost of an expression born from her inner sarcasm; one she didn't use as much amongst the elves of Ithilien. Neither Legolas, nor Faramir and Eowyn, nor any middle earth inhabitant understood her weird quips and references. It was a peaceful life, very different from the hassle of the modern world. Melenwë had grown wiser, caring for the earth, hearing the murmurs of the winds in the trees and understanding its meaning. Another world indeed.

— "Be careful what you wish for, Frances. How will you react once you are settled without the purpose of the Keeper of Time? Children, a loving husband, will you handle it?"

— "Slow down. We are not married yet. We just … reacquainted ourselves last night."

A huge smile adorned Frances' face at the memory, one so genuine that Melenwë's heart soared for her blood sister. At long last, happiness was at her door. After sacrificing so much, after leaving him to die on the battlefield… Joy was earned and well deserved.

— "You know of his commitment to you…"

Melenwë's words called a frown on Frances' brow.

— "Yes. It frightens me. Fifteen hundred years watching over me. It is overwhelming to think that he sacrificed his peace for such a long time."

— "Time does not have the same meaning up there, Frances. And a promise is a promise. Did you really expect Tristan to relent?"

Both women paused at that, the exact same pair of eyes probing the other. But even their gaze differed now, Frances' more inquisitive, Melenwë's appeased.

— "Come," said the princess, leaving the trail to plunge under the sheltering shadows of the great trees.

And Frances followed, marvelling at the luxurious nature that surrounded her. The trees had grown, their branches intertwining, leaving only filtered patches of light to dance upon the ground. Ithilien was a magnificent place to behold, the volcanic soil rich enough to provide for a multitude of plants and animals, rivers flowing freely to the sea, pausing in ponds to soak the earth and nourish it with its welcome freshness. Eventually, Melenwë settled in the centre of a clearing, sunrays basking her head with a crown of light.

— "Your care has done much good here," Frances said as her gaze wandered around.

— "It will be long ere the land heals properly. The earth suffered much, some scars run deep."

Frances nodded, more than used now, to her clone's cryptic sayings. In the bottom of her heart, she knew that Melenwë also referred to the depth of her soul. Tristan's death had left a deep, angry scar. They both sported it albeit Melenwë's ache had been appeased by the presence of Legolas.

— "We both loved Tristan, as we have both loved Legolas."

Frances spluttered at that, ready to deny it.

— "I don't…"

Melenwë's warm hand enclosed hers; there was no judgement in her gaze.

— "Of course you do. We both do. I've come to terms with it. Legolas has, reluctantly, accepted that there were both sides of us, pulled into different directions. One looking at matters of the soul, the other embracing its humanity. We were meant to become two different ones. And I think, at the time, that we knew of it."

— "Less cryptic, Melenwë please"

The princess shot her a playful smile, the breeze fumbling with her overlong strands.

— "The Keeper of Time, the fighter, fell in love with Tristan, or the man he could have been. I, for my part, have been able to express my elvish side. I do not fight anymore, I only care for life. As if, even after being cloned, we'd gone our separate ways, chosen different seeds to nurture."

— "I am aware that we've grown to be different. Does it mean that our love is partial? Only half what it should be? Do you hide the rest away from your husband?"

Melenwë's gaze lingered into the beautiful clearing, her mind roaming the paths of the past.

— "No. It is complete. There's a fierce fighter in Legolas, and a fierce lover of life and nature in Tristan. Both of them have what it takes to nurture every part of us"

Frances jumped to her feet, pacing back and forth, guilt spread for all to see.

— "But the timing is all wrong. We couldn't possibly be in love with Tristan at the time, right? It would have been … a betrayal,"

Melenwë smiled gently, and she reminded her of the wisdom she'd seen in the lady Galadriel so many years prior. It unsettled her, somehow, to see how elvish her counterpart had become.

— "There is no time for the soul, Frances. Stop worrying about what might have been, accept the joy bestowed upon you, and Legolas and mine's blessing."

A great breeze suddenly swished upon the clearing, and Frances suddenly found herself alone.

The droplets of rain falling over the window woke her from her light slumber. Rain, yes! It certainly should allow the temperature to notch down for the day. It was morning, quite past 9 o'clock judging by the light outside, but Frances couldn't kick herself out of bed. Especially since a nice, warm body shared it this morning. The first occurrence in … forever. No one had graced her bed since its purchase; a day of 2004 on her way to engineering school. She'd come to accept that no one ever would. Yet there he was, sprawled on his belly, one of his legs poking out of the mattress. Damn French standards, 190 cm was just too small for him! One of his arms rested over her waist, pinning her in place. Frances smiled; if he was anywhere like Tristan, he would probably be a little possessive. She didn't mind, so would she. With a body and face such as his, she had no doubt half the planet (the 50% feminine) would be running after him as well; those women would have to deal with her. His chest gently moved as he breathed, the lines of his back exposed to her scrutiny, his shoulders rounded with efficient muscles, his biceps packing quite a punch. Kristan's body was a work of art complimented by sharp features. The real secret of his attractiveness, though, rested in the beauty of his heart … and the depth of his gaze. No model could ever rival with his intensity as a human being.

Shifting a little, Frances snaked closer to his side. He was warm, inviting, all soft skin and hard muscles. For a while, her gaze observed him as he slept, his expression almost boyish, deprived of angst and sadness. Deprived of Tristan's tremendous guilt and shame. Straight strands fell over his cheek in a curtain of light brown and ash, his hair just long enough to frame his face. It was a nice change from Tristan's whose shaggy mane had to be secured by braids to prevent them from falling all over his face. Frances studied the strange colour for a while, realising that his dirty blond was, in fact, a disarray of browns and silver streaks, a colour reflected in his discrete eyebrows. Who needed strong eyebrows when your stare could make the fiercest run for cover? The long sideburns emphasised the curve of his jaw, another handsome streak, as if he needed it! Kristan also seemed younger in slumber, the lines of his mouth less pronounced, the soft curve of his full lips on display. How his former wife could ever let go of him, she wondered… Frances couldn't resist, and bestowed a feather like kiss to his mouth. After all, he said he was hers, now, right?

Not that she could believe it, mind you! His eyes opened, interrupting her line of thoughts as he smiled groggily. The whole world seemed to brighten at his easy expression; it took her breath away. Then he tugged on her waist and bent over, his lips captured hers in a deep kiss, the warmth of his mouth engulfing hers entirely. Her brain melted when he sighed, and rested his nose in the crook of her neck. Yes. Kristan was very much awake! While his arms gathered her close, she snuggled against him with a whimper of happiness. Her whole body, her whole mind was going limp in his arms. As if she could shed the pretence and allow him to shelter her from the world. Her barriers and fences were crumbling down, one by one, a terrifying prospect for someone used to keep the world at bay. A horrible fear shot through her, tension creeping back like a bolt. Kristan tightened his hold, frowning at once.

— "What is it?"

His voice was still rough from sleep, giving an even sexier tone than usual.

— "You don't … you don't regret it, do you?"

Frances was, inexplicably, on the verge of tears. As if she couldn't accept nor believe that he was truly here, now. The look of pure disbelief he addressed was soon replaced by uncertainty.

— "My heart's greatest desire has been granted. No regrets, no"

Then he regarded her seriously, taking in her deflated form and the moisture in her eyes. Flipping her on her back, he plunged his perceptive gave into hers. Frances swallowed, well aware of the heat that permeated through the sheets, or the large amount of skin that connected them right now. Her body was screaming at her to mould around his taut frame and never let go.

— "What about you, Frances? Do you have you any regrets?

His heart beat wildly now, threatening to burst from his chest as his hands braced on either side of her head.

— "My only regret is that I didn't realise it sooner, Kristan."

At this, a devilish smirk twisted his lips.

— "I knew it," he whispered in her ear, causing the young woman to shiver.

Kristan lowered himself against her, and her legs wrapped around his legs while he nuzzled her neck.

— "What?"

— "I should have kissed you when I met you, right there, right then."

Frances laughed this time, tension leaving her body as she imagined the scene, remembering the moment she'd first set her eyes on Kristan.

_This brownish gaze faded to grey, intense, traversing all. She had known only one man with such eyes … a man whose talent with a blade was unmatched on earth … whose aim could have shamed an Olympic champion with the bow … a man who had died on the battlefield after kissing her senseless before leading her into a fearless cavalry charge._

— "Here's our fencing instructor" came Lucie's dreamy voice.

_Her remark was lost to her companions. Lost to all but Kristan. Eyes bulging out of his skull, he forced his mouth shut to refrain from openly gaping. She was there! The woman on stage, the woman from his dreams! The voice of his friends was but a just a nuisance for he could hear nothing more than the blood rushing in his ears. His lips uttered the words before he would even think._

— "Tempore custodem"

_The Keeper of Time, in Latin. A long-lost souvenir of a conversation when, at the time, he had nearly killed her. Her golden stare pinned him in place, her features so shocked that he feared she might faint. Such a strange sight, when he remembered her fierceness as she fought, piercing and slashing without battling an eyelash. Her chest heaved, her lips pursed, face blank and pale skin. But her eyes spoke volumes. Disbelief, heartache, guilt and regret. It was so overwhelming that for a moment, the forest disappeared. All the familiar noises, the smells, the scuttling of mice feet on the ground, the shuffling of feathers in the trees, even the wind seemed to have halted._

_Need arose in his body, the need to touch her, to be close to her. The surge of emotion short circuited his brain so badly that Kristan reached for the young woman, sneaking his hand around her nape while the other ensnared her waist. Then he pulled her to him and, tilting her head with a flick of his hand, claimed her lips with his own with a burning passion. Her arms instantly wound up around him, latching at his neck and waist, surrendering her tongue to his ministrations. Body flush against him, they couldn't get enough at they tasted each other and mingled their scents. Until a cough called them back to reality._

_Lucie had reddened slightly, her mouth open in shock, disbelief, and disappointment, while Aurélien smirked openly._

— _"I take it you two know each other?"_

The scene would have been hilarious. Frances' cheeks reddened slightly, wondering why she'd waited so long to accept her affection for Kristan. Guilt, uncertainty and lots of attenuating circumstances such as dark elves killers and Ori invasion perhaps? His lips, now, gently kissed her jaw, his body flush – and very much naked – against hers.

— "It certainly would have been interesting. Imagine Lucie's face!"

Kristan chuckled, the vibration reverberating through her body like ripples of the ocean, bringing with them a sense of peace she had scarcely felt. But there was no mistaking the seriousness of his tone.

— "That whole thing is a mess, Frances. I understand if it takes time."

The young woman gazed into his grey eyes, finding them mesmerising. She could only tell him the truth; she wanted him to see her. With her faults and doubts, her mistakes and shortcomings. Here, there, she wasn't the Keeper of Time. Just Frances, the woman behind the mask.

— "My mind doesn't reconcile very well, I felt unfaithful to Legolas when I came back from the fifth century. Because I think I had fallen for Tristan and I couldn't possibly accept it at the time"

Taking a breath of relief, Kristan covered her body from head to toe in a tender embrace. As she buried her nose into the crook of his neck, he voiced his inner turmoil between feather like kisses to her skin.

— "I get it, Frances, really. Even if I am jealous"

To this, the young lady actually chuckled into his shoulder.

— "It's no use. You're my man now. The only one. Period."

A sweet kiss answered this heartwarming statement, and for a while, Frances was so distracted that she forgot they had been discussing. His scent, masculine yet so faint despite their very heated evening, seemed to overload her brain. His lips, soft and demanding, made her body hum in contentment. But Kristan wasn't about to let go.

— "But are you my woman?"

Frances shifted beneath him so that he rested by her side. Her long fingers caressed his face gently, trailing the place where tattoos used to adorn his cheekbones. His eyes closed of their own accord to lean into her loving touch.

— "Aye. I am your woman, and no other's. I have mourned for my past relationships, and I am free now. Free, for you"

Kristan nodded, wondering how, in the world, she would be able to come to terms that she had fallen in love with Tristan, a fifth-century knight, and was now with the same and different man at the same time. Her line of thoughts seemed the same as she gazed into his eyes.

— "I love the colour of your eyes. They remind me of a stormy sea. Did you know that Tristan's eyes were a different colour?"

A look of disbelief crossed his handsome features. Of all the similarities and differences between his past self, he certainly wasn't expecting that.

— "Really?"

Frances nodded.

— "Yes. They were hazel, bordering on ember with the light. But the streaks of grey were already there at night."

Kristan's eyebrows rose, and Frances reddened.

— "I am almost jealous of myself. This is weird."

The young woman swatted his arm playfully before she sobered.

— "Don't go imagining things. Light was scarce in the fifth century, and we met a few times at the wall at night. It was winter, the sun went down early up there"

Lifting a hand, she traced his cheekbone absently. The pang of sadness was still there; she would need to work on her feelings to reconcile past and present.

— "And his gaze … his gaze was as intense as yours."

— "This comes with the character, I think."

A cheeky smirk adorned his features, and Frances couldn't help but gape at the easy expression that never made it to Tristan's face. As much as his death pained her, she could only admit that his rebirth had unburdened him somehow. Giving him a new chance at a happier life.

— "Yes. There's much of him in you, and at the same time, so many differences."

Kristan pulled her closer to him, shifting aside to stick her back to his front, tugging at the sheets to chase the slight chill away. Frances hummed in appreciation – it felt so good to be spooned against him – caressing the arms that kept her close. But even her loving touch couldn't chase the clouds taking over this beautiful sky. At last, Kristan decided to voice his fears, choosing to be different from the brooding scout he had once been. A smart choice.

— "Is it a bad thing?"

Frances clenched her fingers around his forearms; she didn't need to see his face to know he was worried.

— "No. I'm glad you are a 21st-century man, life was very different back then, and Tristan had been raised in this violent and misogynist environment. We would have butted heads all the time."

— "Yes, I can imagine."

There was a short silence before Frances caressed his arms, choosing to delay the subject of Tristan's servitude to Rome, and the sadness of his slavery. Now was the time to rejoice; her heart and body certainly agreed with her.

— "And you know, it is nice that you do not rise at dawn to scout the countryside with a hawk perched on your arm."

Kristan craned his neck to give her a searching look.

— "Ah, the Hawk. I sometimes see it in my dreams, and when I roam the forest I always expect her to show up."

— "To me, she was Lady Hawk. But the day you died, you said her name. Isolde"

The revelation was so preposterous that Kristan couldn't contain a snort, totally oblivious that, for once, Frances had said 'you', and not 'Tristan'.

— "You are telling me that the tale of Tristan and Isolde initiated because of my hawk? A bird, as my lover?"

Frances chuckled heartily, turning slightly to witness his absolute disbelief.

— "I'm sure Lancelot must have spread tales about you and the bird. There was no lost love between you two."

Kristan frowned, unsure about the relationship he shared with the dark knight at the time. Their recent meeting, even as a holographic form, had sent dozens of emotions swirling at the back of his mind.

— "I think I didn't always see eye to eye with him."

— "He was cad, you know. Stealing kisses and such"

Kristan's arms tightened around her frame, one of his thighs shifting up to part hers in a very very intimate move. Frances's breath slightly hitched before she regained her composure.

— "But let us leave the past in the past. I love having someone to wake up to, especially if that someone is you"

Kisses landed on her shoulder blades.

— "I could get used to this, your skin is soft," came his deep voice in her ear.

Frances coddled into him even more, wrapping his arms around her and gracing his fingers with light, sensual kisses.

— "So could I. Finding you there … it is a gift. Your body is so warm. I'd bask all day with your around me…"

The rest, she added with a mischievous smile.

— " … in me"

Kristan growled his assent.

— "That can be arranged."

And Frances marvelled that, even in the morning, his ministrations were as pleasant as the night before. For a while, she got lost in the overwhelming waves of longing, peace and pleasure her body produced under his care. There was no past, no future, nothing but the present as his hands caressed her and his mouth lavished kisses upon the most secret parts of her body. Their joining was the most beautiful, most intense of experiences, and judging by the stunned look on his face, the feeling was mutual. Never before, apart from the previous evening, had she seen his features so relaxed, his expression so unguarded. His grey eyes, as awed as if he had seen an angel.

When at last, they both lay panting, tangled in the sheets, the young woman claimed his chest as her resting place. Her fingers played with his chestnut hair, marvelling at the slightly darker shade that covered his torso. A flurry of questions ran through her mind, and she couldn't pick up the one she wanted to address first. Eventually, she murmured.

— "I've never known love like this, never known that pleasure could be so overwhelming."

Kristan nodded, dropping a kiss on her hair.

— "Never have I"

— "Not even with your wife?"

There was a slight pause; Kristan thinking, or trying to find a diplomatic answer. Like her, he always told the truth… and nothing but the truth. A trait she appreciated greatly. Kristan, like his fifth century counterpart, wasn't one to sugar coat.

— "No"

— "Then maybe we were destined to be with each other."

Another grunt of assent. His hand caressed her shoulders slightly, digging into her fiery hair along the length of her spine.

— "I have no doubt. I am sure that you are the reason why I decided to live again."

Frances' breath hitched. How could she repay such feelings, she that had been entirely devoted to another for so many years while the knight awaited for her to let go?

— "Well. This is overwhelming, to say the least."

— "More overwhelming than to bed an elf prince?"

She knew, without even glancing at him, that the corner of his lips was quirked. His teasing was back, but it was no laughing matter.

— "I didn't"

— "Uh?"

His arms stilled on her back, and Frances lifted her head to meet his gaze. His grey pools were swimming with untold emotions.

— "I didn't bed him"

— "You didn't?"

Frances shook her head, trying to ignore the relief hidden behind his irises.

— "To elves, sharing intimacy is alike to marriage, and creates a soul bond between lovers. I refused to create such a bond until I was sure none of us would die; it would have killed him. And me. I carried the seed of this bond for years, something akin to a light hidden in the very depth of my heart, giving me the certainty that he was alive."

His words held an air of finality as he eventually understood.

— "This is how you knew."

— "Yes. When I met Tristan, I was seeking to go back to Legolas, and enraged the Valar had not granted my wish. His inner light was fading. When I got back from the fifth century, and Loki offered to clone me, I knew Melenwë had found him because the awareness of him disappeared."

— "How?"

His stormy eyes grounded her, and for once, Frances realised that the pang in her heart had lifted as she spoke of Legolas' binding with Melenwë.

— "She completed the bond, and freed me at the same time, although it took me many years to accept it. I even married once, for a few weeks before I realised I had not mourned properly."

— "Married? Yes, I do remember something. On a ship, right?"

Frances eyes widened. How weird, to have memories of a time when he was dead.

— "Yes"

— "Well, we're even then."

Silence descended upon them, Kristan taking deep, soothing breaths, and she was basking in his warmth as she settled her forearms over him. He was comfortable, like a great comforter in her bed. Her guilt settled a little; he'd had a woman before her, for a long time. She was not the only one whose heart had been stretched.

— "I've not had many men, you know. You're the one and only I've known this way for a very long time."

— "Good. And whomever comes close will have to deal with me."

Frances laughed, shaking his chest with her mirth.

— "People still cower when you glare"

— "But you don't," he deadpanned.

Her light chocolate eyes sent him a challenging look, daring him to try and intimidate her. A useless thought; Kristan had enough memories of past and present life to know exactly how stubborn the Keeper of Time could be.

— "Don't go thinking I am unaffected, I just do not yield when I think I am right," she stated truthfully.

The former knight nodded; he loved that about her. Frances didn't lie, nor play games. She always stated the truth, her truth. Like him. Probably one of the reasons Tristan respected her. He still abhorred lies today.

— "Even if you are impressive, I've faced worse. And I'm happy Melenwë got to handle Thranduil's glare, I don't think my heart would have survived his scathing looks"

Kristan kissed her nose, calling a blush to her cheeks.

— "Tell me about them … about her."

After all, they had all day to be acquainted properly, now that life-threatening events gave them a respite. Her stomach, though, was insulting her profusely.

— "All right. But first, I think waffles and tea are in order."

Frances knelt, her eyes roaming the room to find her discarded clothes. She could almost feel Kristan's eyes drinking in the sight of her naked body, making her blush even harder. It was one thing to make out with a man build like a God in the middle of the night, and another to be subjected to his scrutiny in plain daylight. She hoped to distract him with a culinary treat, and added for his sake.

— "Real, Scandinavian waffle"

When at last, she dared meeting his gaze, his boyish expression melted her heart.

— "Heart-shaped?" came his hopeful retort.

**_There's not much happening here, but I love this chapter nonetheless. Aren't they cute, our lovebirds? I am a hopeless romantic, and felt like they deserved this time together._**


	16. Chapter 16 - 'On ira'

**_As usual, italics is French._**

The song that echoed in her blue candy only brought longing to her heart. As Jean Jacques Goldman's lyrics sank into her skull, Frances realised how tired she was of her job. 'On ira,' he said, 'toi et moi, où je sais pas. Peu importe…'. 'Let us go,' it said, 'anywhere, who cares where we end up.' And she wanted to do just that. Leave this pointless job behind, leave her boss' face in the dirt he'd just dragged her in, and roam the world with her newfound knight.

Today had been her annual review. Her own personal hell, for she couldn't possibly unsheathe a dagger and pierce her boss' heart. Or slit his throat. Sigh. That rascal of a superior dared telling her the team was less efficient because her, that she fomented some kind of coup, and had turned his guys against him! Of course they had, with the conditions they were working in! The man had no sense at all, was counterproductive, and his people were getting fed up with his bullshit. Maybe she was a catalyst … to this, she could plead guilty. Frances could be subdued, but was not one to back down before injustice. And this stupid job was a giant injustice! Damn! She'd just left an email to Daniel, asking for some advice, before leaving the office. As one of her best friends, he always managed to calm her down. But he hadn't called back; he probably was off world hunting some answers to find Merlin's weapon, and she was feeling guilty about her outburst now. Daniel was probably neck deep into research to prevent the Ori invasion; there just wasn't time to flatter her fragile ego!

Horns blared, and she started. The light had turned green half a second earlier, and the impatient people of Montpellier were already yelling at her. Yes. She needed to get out of here, out of this job, out of this life that sucked the energy out of her and would eventually leave her drained. For a woman who'd gone to war, fought at Helm's Deep, served on a nineteen century Man-O-War and helped King Arthur instate his reign, it was rather ironic. Hopefully, spending some time with Kristan would clear her mind, and cheer her mood a little. Provided he was home; she'd not called beforehand. Could she possibly barge in at his place without previous warning? Would he be pissed, or annoyed at her gall? Parking her blue candy in front of his building – a little edifice with balconies in the west end of the city – she pushed the button to ring his apartment and waited. A few seconds passed, a minute even, and she rang again. Damn. No one answered. Pissed beyond measure, the young woman sat on the steps, her head falling into her hands. Sometimes, this world didn't make sense anymore.

Wallowing in her pity, she heard some music playing above. Standing still, she could clearly hear the notes of 'Everglow'. Frances smiled. It was one of Kristan's favourite songs, he'd introduced her to 'Colplay' nary a week before, stunned by her ignorance on the subject. 'You'll find that there are plenty of basics missing in my culture, I was probably too busy staying alive or swallowing meaningless teachings,' she had retorted. It didn't unfaze him. Nothing quite unfazed him truly, his placid demeanour so alike Tristan's old indifference. Although now, acceptance had replaced aloofness, which was much more socially acceptable, and felt better than facing a cold wall of detachment.

The music was a little loud, filtering through his bay on the balcony; probably the reason why he'd not heard the doorbell … or knowing the man, ignored it altogether. Frances took a few steps back in the street to assess the building. Kristan's terrace was on the second floor and a convenient tree provided an easy access. The young woman dropped her bag in her trunk, and grit her teeth around her car keys. Then, gathering momentum, she jumped from the pavement to grasp the lowest branch, using the ground-floor balcony to haul herself up. Swinging her legs, she managed to catch another branch, and restored her balance with a mighty pull. Then, the climb became easier as smallest branches provided both support for her feet and arms. At last, she was level with his balcony, and dropped soundlessly on the tiles. The music was louder now, and Frances stepped to the window frame. A smile crept on her face as she spotted Kristan.

He was dancing, shirtless, a pair of wide sweatpants encasing his powerful legs, cropped at the calves. His furniture, pushed aside, gave him some space on the wooden floor as he moved graciously, his body attuned to the music. There seemed to be no main thread; his performance a mix of classical and modern dancing, his powerful muscles glistening with sweat in the summer heat. Mesmerised, Frances could only gape as he occupied the whole space of his living room; a wide area he had chosen especially for the deed. Legs lifted, attitude, arms followed, his chest flexing, twisting in a controlled display. Then he was liquid, moving like a river, before he stopped short, posture taut. Every muscle moved in tune, every fibre pulled as he performed moves that she was incapable of completing. It was as beautiful as it was enthralling, the perfect counterbalance to her singing – or so he said.

At last, his eyes met hers behind the glass, as if he'd known all along she was there. Cheeky man, nothing went past him. But instead of stopping in his tracks, Kristan only smiled, and pushed the glass door aside in a fluid movement. His hand shot out to enclose hers.

— "Come," he murmured in her hear, his smooth voice creating goosebumps on her skin. "Dance with me"

Frances panicked instantly, tugging on his hand, but he refused to relent.

— "I can't dance"

Grey eyes gave her a 'no nonsense' look.

— "I've seen the way you fight, Frances."

And just like that, Frances was swooped into his warm embrace, his gaze effectively trapping her, keys discarded on the floor. His body barred the escape route, and his mouth bestowed a feather like kiss on her cheek before he murmured in her ear.

— "Humour me, little fairy."

Frances nodded her assent, well aware that she couldn't resist him. What Kristan wanted, Kristan obtained. The former scout started slowly, swaying with the music as he led her from left to right, in tune with the slow rhythm of 'Everglow'. His left hand held hers firmly, his right splayed on her upper back, and Frances fumbled a little with her legs. Was she supposed to do the steps? What was he expecting? What was the correct posture?

— "Let go," he told her. "I won't lead you astray."

No, he never had. In this life, nor the previous. Frances relaxed in his embrace, surrendering her body and will to him. He was a strong leader, as he was in life, his mesmerising gaze holding her in his power, his body guiding her around without a fault. His arms moved, the pull too strong to resist, making her twirl to the side, then latched her again against him as he went the other way around. Little by little, the young woman accepted his lead, her mind shutting down. The verse came again, the singer's voice soft, the rhythm slowing.

_"Yeah, we swore on that night we'd be friends 'til we die__  
But the changing of winds, and the way waters flow  
Life is short as the falling of snow."_

Kristan's hand caressed her back slowly, descending to her waist to pull her closer. His lips lingered over her mouth in a tantalising caress, his fingers sliding in between hers, the massage sending tingles through her whole body, begging her to let go, to surrender her body to the moment.

He was so close, so warm, the epitome of sensuality as his breath caressed her face. Hips swaying slowly, sensually, strong hands pulling her lower body against his, one of his legs laced between hers. For a while, there was just the heat of his hands on her lower back, the sweet contact of his hips leading her back and forth, and the caress of his breath on her lips. Frances' body hummed, her core warming up in anticipation, her whole being melting against him in surrender. Her lips brushed his once, twice. Yet he didn't respond, teasing her. Just as she was about to relinquish and kiss him soundly, he bent her backwards slowly, one hand accompanying her as he rocked her around, fingers firmly set at her nape.

Frances shuddered, her head rolling entirely as she let go, trusting him to bring her back. When he pulled her upright, a flurry of piano notes picked up the pace. Kristan twirled her swiftly in a series of small steps rhythmed by the music. Frances laughed; she felt so free, and bent her head backwards as he moulded her body to his will. Dancing! She was dancing! The little girl unleashed, shedding her layers of self-doubt and restraint as she remembered her classes of classical ballet. Suddenly she was flying, her whole chest and head bend outwards in an impossible position, arms outstretched, her body flush again Kristan who had picked her up for a lift. When her feet touched the ground, he laced his leg with hers, and balanced them back, keeping the positions, then forth, the move reminiscent of ice skaters dancing waltz together. For a split second, she realised it must have looked weird from the outside, but she couldn't care less as Kristan now twirled her around, and picked her up once more, lifting her upon his shoulders. Stiffening her body, she let him take a few turns in rhythm before he set her down without interrupting the movement. Frances passed three times below his outstretched hand, content that his height allowed the move so flawlessly.

Ecstatic, she climbed on one leg, finding that her classical dancing had come to front, beating her shyness. He gave her an appreciative look, and took her hand as she posed in attitude, his hand steadying her before bending low. Frances' outer leg shot up behind her, and she gracefully made an arabesque before coming back to him, her steps assured. Now she was dancing, really dancing, and he led her around with the ease of a professional. Two souls reunited, their moves graceful and as attuned in battle as it was on the planks. The melody unleashed without pause, and Kristan's hands came around her waist, lifting her once more, setting her down, starting the chase anew until the song climaxed. And then, as the piano created this beautiful and slightly sad moment, he pulled her to him anew, and roamed his hand from her hips to her shoulder, following sensually the line of her spine. This time, there was no taunting as his lips claimed hers, bodies still swaying to the music, both out of breath. His deft fingers caressed her back, her waist, and eventually hooked her legs up around his toned waist as their kiss deepened.

Swirl of tongues, dance of lips, two souls moulding against each other. Nothing existed except his warm body against hers, his scent mixed with sweat, the sweet movement of his muscles against her light dress. Each and every time he kissed her she lost her mind, and now more than ever, she surrendered willingly. Kristan's caresses were so sensual, his hips against hers so hauntingly, her whole body attached to his. He did not even sway from her weight, holding her like there would be no tomorrow, seemingly unfazed by the strain. The muscles of his upper body, tightly strung, betrayed the flooding blood that kept them going. Without a shirt, Kristan was a vision of pure maleness, chestnut curls spreading upon his torso. When at last they landed on the sofa, Kristan looked into her eyes with so much love than her heart nearly burst.

— "You dance beautifully, elskede"

The young woman reddened, hiding her face into his sweaty shoulder.

— "You are a great leader. And I love dancing, I just have no structure nor technique, and I get mixed up with right and left all the time"

Kristan chuckled, the rumble reverberating through his chest. True, Frances sometimes had issues coordinating left and right, just like her father. Something to do with an ambidextrous tendency that could be to her advantage if she trained her other side as well, or so he thought. He had not submitted the idea to her yet.

— "It is sometimes a wonder how you learnt the art of the sword."

Frances straightened in his lap, miffed by the playful twinkle that danced in his mesmerising golden eyes.

— "Lots and lots of training in many different places"

And to this, Kristan could only nod. If he had only channelled Tristan, the fearsome warrior, while he learnt medieval fencing, Frances had gone a different way. Trained by a ranger born to be king, elves and later one Japanese samurais had created an incredible set of skills to Frances. But most of all, her perseverance and many hours of training had embedded the moves like reflexes into her brain. She wasn't a natural, but her grace and stubbornness had done the trick, and he respected her for that. He would have to ask her to show some of her moves; Kristan was always eager to learn new techniques that he usually mastered pretty easily. Tristan was still there, buried into his core, after all.

Frances freezing in his lap, her warm chocolate eyes wide, sent tension through his body. Tightening his grip, the former knight suddenly asked.

— "What is it?"

— "This song…"

Kristan took a moment to recognise the melody. His mp3 now played 'The scientist', further down his 'Coldplay' list. One that he loved dearly, but always called much sadness in him.

— "The scientist, still Coldplay. What about it?"

— "Damn! That's the last song you listened before the battle. I didn't even know it was from Coldplay at the time, don't remember why it was in my mp3 in the first place either, probably music I scavenged from my brother's computer"

Kristan closed his eyes, settling Frances' head upon his shoulder once more as he listened to the words. For sure, they called forth a memory of Tristan, roaming the countryside with a strange device plugged into his ear before the battle of Badon Hill. He vaguely remembered the sense of exhilaration and pride to be the recipient of Frances' secrets, to be her confidant even if he knew, at the time, that they would never be together. Yes. He remembered.

"Come up to meet you  
Tell you I'm sorry  
You don't know how lovely you are  
I had to find you  
Tell you I need you  
Tell you I set you apart

Tell me your secrets  
And ask me your questions  
…

Tell me you love me  
Come back and haunt me  
Oh and I rush to the start  
Running in circles, chasing our tails  
Coming back as we are

Nobody said it was easy  
Oh it's such a shame for us to part  
Nobody said it was easy  
No one ever said it would be so hard  
I'm going back to the start, 'what we do today'".

Gently rocking the young woman against his chest, Kristan awaited for her to speak her mind. Moist graced his shoulder, and he knew she was crying. Another traumatic memory – she truly suffered from PTSD – that would have to be cleared. Kristan frowned; he really needed to find someone to heal her mind, but finding a psychologist that could hear about the Keeper of Time was impossible. All in all, Kristan wondered what would have become of his little fairy had he not shown up? Would she crumble down entirely? Perhaps then, the timing wasn't so ill after all. It was now that she needed him.

In the meantime, the former knight tightened his hold on Frances despite the stifling heat until she was ready to tell him what the song reminded her of.

— "I found it after the battle. Just before Arthur's and Guinevere's wedding."

— "Oh"

No words were needed, and Kristan kissed the crown of her head before resting his cheek there. Present, sturdy and alive beside her as she revisited the memory of his death. Long seconds ticked by until Frances wiped her face and sat upon his legs, her arms circling his neck still. She had regained composure and watched him in awe, as if she couldn't believe he was there.

— "It's a song I could have sung for you. It is ridiculous how the lyrics fit, how I wanted to get back to the start. Such a shame for us to part … and I never thought it would be so hard"

Words were too weak to convey the swirl of feelings that had assaulted her when she had discovered this song, lost in the forest, her collarbone shattered and Tristan buried. The grieving process had been as its worst, regret flooding her mind at not realising how much this particular knight meant to her.

— "And I have haunted you…"

— "Yes. And you came back, just like he says."

— "And now we've gone back to the start," came his soothing voice.

And Frances couldn't help but deflate against him, realising that, at last, they were both alive and free to love each other.

— "Never apart, never again," she said, her hand caressing his cheek.

— "Never apart, little fairy"

And he sealed his promise with a kiss. Even though the world might fall apart weeks from now, even though the threat of the Ori loomed upon their heads, even though anything could happen in Frances' crazy life, Kristan was honoured to be her man and determined to stick by her side. For a moment, he wondered what their life would have been had she chosen to stay with Arthur in the fifth century … provided he had survived Badon Hill. The knight in him would give anything to see King Arthur and his former brothers in arms. It tore him apart, this fifth century core into a modern man's body and upbringing.

Perhaps it was better this way, to live in the 21st century without Tristan's darkness permeating his soul, avoiding altogether to witness, firsthand, the demise of Arthur's kingdom. For his legends were true, it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose in the fifth century and Arthur was killed by his own son.

— "Think they will tear each other with Lancelot?" he eventually asked.

Frances bit her lower lip in thought, her eyebrows gently rising as she seemed to come to terms with the notion.

— "Don't know," she eventually answered. "And for the moment, don't care. Kiss me senseless?"

Kristan's lips quirked up in amusement.

— "Aye, woman."

The buzz of the front door interrupted their moment, and Kristan groaned. Then he attacked Frances' mouth once more, lips demanding. A second buzz, more insistent, had him glare at the corridor. Frances giggled, hoping fervently to never be the recipient of such an intimidating look, while his lips caressed hers once more. But he didn't let go until loud bangs wracked his front door. Kristan stood with a sigh of regret.

— "Do you ever answer the doorbell?"

His response was short, as if, with those little words, it explained it all.

— "Not when I'm busy."

Grabbing a t-shirt that lay discarded, he passed a hand through his hair, the result more hazardous than a haircut by a five-year-old. Frances smiled; she loved it when he was unkempt like this; the sweat and sticking hair gave him an almost animalistic look that she appreciated. How far she'd gone from her pristine elvish prince!

— "_Open up, it's the police_!" came muffled voices.

The noise of his door being unlatched echoed in the hall, and Frances could just picture Kristan standing there, giving the intruders his most heartfelt glare, policemen or not.

— "Good evening sir. Your neighbour has signalled an intruder climbing to your terrace, and we're here to make sure that everything is all right"

Frances muffled her laughter. Damn the neighbour, probably an old lady with a cat with nothing more to do that spying on the good-looking fencing instructor!

— "Er. It's nothing to worry about. Just my … er. My woman, she forgot her keys."

Woman. As in 'wife', in French. Had Kristan done it on purpose?

— "And climbed to the second floor?"

The surprise in the man's voice was almost too much to bear, and Frances bit her fist to prevent from laughing.

— "Yes. That is very much like her," answered Kristan's smooth voice.

There was something in his tone. Resignation, admiration, amusement perhaps.

— _"Where is she now?" _asked the police officer sternly.

— "She left. With her keys"

It was not often Kristan was caught lying … the fact that he would do it, for her sake, warmed her heart. Could that conversation get more awkward than this? But Kristan was handling it properly, and protecting her at the same time, shouldering the shame of being interrogated without battling an eyelash. The scout would have threatened them for disturbing his moment, but Kristan was more civilised than that now. Still, she could nearly hear the officers fidget under his stern glare. At last, the police left, extracting a promise for his "woman" to stop climbing buildings, and to go and see that old crone of a neighbour to introduce her so that she wouldn't be mistaken for a thief. The door clanged, and Kristan retreated to the sofa, his footsteps absolutely silent on the wooden floor. As he landed, one arm outstretched to face her, a gentle smile adorned his lips.

— "Anywhere you go, you can't help but draw attention, can you?"

Frances wasn't sorry she'd climbed; it was quite a lot of fun.

— "As I told you before, you weren't answering your door."

— "Ever heard of mobile phones?"

Frances lifted a playful eyebrow, her hazel eyes the very picture of innocence.

— "Mobile what? You fifth century man!"

A smile crept to his face.

— "Anyway. You are crazy, woman. And I love you just like that."

He loved her, and told her so every now and then with the most heartfelt sincerity. Frances, though, had yet to return the favour. Ignoring her absence of response, Kristan bent forward, meeting his woman in a searing kiss. But before they got carried away, she landed a hand on his chest.

— "Did you call me your wife on purpose?"

There was a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth, the tightening of his eyes telling her that he was trying not to laugh. So yes, he perfectly knew that 'woman' and 'wife' were the same word.

— "Well, you have the proof that French is a little archaic, right?"

Frances' laugh was short-lived, as very soon, her mouth was otherwise occupied. Helpless … she was absolutely helpless when it came to him. His voice, sensual, his body, taut and warm, his hands, his touch … a glimpse of paradise. And his lips. Whenever his lips touched her skin, she lost her sense completely. And from the way his body pressed against hers, his mouth kissing hers like there would be no tomorrow … well, the feeling was quite mutual. There would be no talk of her stupid boss before they treated barefoot to the fridge, only to find out that it was hopelessly empty, for only the call of their stomach could distract them long enough from each other. And even barely!


	17. Chapter 17 - Freedom ?

**_Hey, it's been a while! this chapter was ready, it just needed a little editing. Another non-life-threatening chapter that will make you long for summer and then…_**

**_ So Koba, come stai? Parla italiano oggi?_**

**_Yes, he called her 'ma femme'. People in the suburbs can use it to mean 'girlfriend' in a demeaning way, but in this case, we know how playful Kristan can get. I had not seen the parallel with his Hawk, it is a lovely image._**

**_Tobi, I hope this story agrees with you better than the others. I'm a little stuck on my Tristan getting back to the present so I decided to work on this one instead. But I'll manage, eventually _**

Saturday was spent leisurely on the seaside, in la Grande Motte. A fashionable setting, for sure; Frances was quite addicted to the sea or any pool of water where she could bathe. The temperature was not relevant; she'd jump in anytime, regardless of the weather. Fortunately, south of France allowed them to stroll leisurely along the beaches, and even indulge in a little shopping after a quick lunch of fresh fish without freezing their asses off. Today was a rather mild summer day, only thirty-three degrees – Celsius – and a nice sea breeze. Enough for Kristan to start spontaneous combustion; with his high metabolism and Danish roots, he suffered from the heat rather badly. Frances, on the other hand, didn't seem to care much. She'd handle forty-five degrees without battling an eyelash, a present from her Camel like father who could go biking in canicular temperatures.

As it was, the young woman had dragged her man – she couldn't call him boyfriend, too childish – into a French shop, 'Blanc du nil', who sold exclusively white linen and cotton clothes. Kristan didn't wear much white, but the smile on Frances' face as he exited the fitting room with a plain immaculate tunic was worth it.

— "You look … dashing, honey. White suits you, it brings out your eyes"

'And your inner light', she thought without voicing it. A little swipe of her credit card later, and his former shirt discarded in the paper bag – she was sneaky like that – Frances dragged Kristan along the port in hopes to make a stop at the Häagen Dazs stand before soaking into the sea. His fingers gently encased into hers, his Borsalino – another present bought from the last milliner of Montpellier – protecting his head from the scorching sun, Kristan looked every bit the handsome secret spy women swooned over. And for sure, many eyes turned their way as they strolled along the marina, feminine, for most. Assessing his posture, his proud bearing and handsome features, the catlike grace of his moves, the power of his wide shoulders. Even relaxed, Kristan was, and would always be, a scout. Perceptive, and ready to take on whatever the world threw at him.

Some looks even lingered on her, sneering at her presence, trying to evaluate his attachment to a woman so outrageously lucky, even though they couldn't call her plain. Too bad. None of those peekers would ever understand the roots of their connexion, a link forged across two lives, and fifteen hundred years of death. For who could fathom such madness? Yet there they were, strolling like a normal couple, passing tourist shops and restaurants. Two people on a normal day. But something was on his mind; Frances could tell by the slight tightening of his fingers, the tense angle of his jaw. One glance was all it took for him to stop in his tracks, and search her face intently.

— "What is it, elskede?"

— "I was going to ask you the same thing. You seem tense"

His hand came to rest upon her upper arm, his grey eyes darting around discreetly.

— "People are looking at us."

Frances shrugged.

— "Well. Yes. At you, mainly. It is new for you?"

— "I usually don't gather that much attention on my own. Are you in danger, Frances? Anything you didn't tell me?"

The young lady frowned at that, a little spooked that he would suggest it. But she couldn't blame him; she had so many secrets that Nick Fury could probably borrow some. None that were left unsaid, though. Well, none but one; the man – er, vampire – who appointed her Keeper of Time in the first place … but she had not truthfully had the time to discuss it. And it wasn't so relevant at the moment; Kristan knew, now, all the important facts of her life.

— "Kristan. I promised you there would be no secrets between us, and I intend to keep my promise."

His jaw unclenched slightly, but not as much as she would have loved to. Caressing his upper arm under the tunic, she sent him a reassuring look.

— "You are my companion now. The man who shares my life. THE man, MY man."

His countenance relaxed at that, and she addressed him a beaming smile before putting the boot it.

— "I know I am exclusive, and can be difficult. But there will be nor hidden truth nor deception coming from me. I can't ensure you that you know everything there is to know as of yet; there is still much to share. But I will not lie to you, especially if there is danger. It concerns us both now, all right?"

A sigh passed his lips and his shoulders sagged, his hand now tugging at hers to embrace her.

— "I know, elskede. Forgive me for doubting you," he said, his cheek resting upon her head.

— "I understand. I've thrown so much at you in such a little time, I'm wondering how you could accept it all so easily."

A tiny smile graced his lips as he bent to kiss her cheek just below the base of her ear.

— "I haven't worked it out yet. Some of it is just too crazy."

His sensual voice caused Frances to shiver, and she retaliated at once, circling his broad back to pull him closer.

— "As for the attention we gather, I think they have to do with your tremendous good looks. The women are drooling, that is all"

Kristan snorted at that, pulling his height on her in an attempt to scowl.

— "Do not tease, Frances.", he admonished, his accent thicker because of his nervousness.

— "I don't," she deadpanned.

This time, Kristan gazed into her eyes seriously. His greys were marred with green under the scorching heat, hiding a gleam of uncertainty.

— "Do you really think me handsome?"

Frances almost spluttered such was her shock.

— "Are you for real? ? Have you seen your reflection in a mirror recently? Have you not seen how women look at you in general? You're a walking fantasy, Kristan."

— "Frances," he ground out, thinking she was making fun of him.

His arms tightened around her form, and Frances moulded into him, caressing his lips gently before meeting his gaze squarely. What she saw – uncertainty, fear, longing – did not sit well with her.

— "All right. This is very, very serious. Hear me out, please"

Kristan's faint eyebrow lifted slightly, but he kept his mouth wisely shut.

— "I have to plead my case properly, since you seem rather incredulous."

— "I am," he said with conviction.

Straightening, Frances positioned herself to be shielded by the brim of his hat, so close that he could see the sparks of gold in her warm chocolate eyes and the freckles upon her tiny nose.

— "Kristan. You are, sincerely, honestly, the most handsome man of my acquaintance. Everything about you is just attractive. And when you smile, you outshine the sun"

Kristan's breath shortened at that, and a blush crept to his cheeks as he avoided her gaze altogether. His ex-wife found him rather handsome, for sure; she had married him after all. But in general, his very sharp features were not described as such. Exotic, maybe, magnetic just as well. But to hear those words in her mouth, the woman he considered incredibly beautiful, it made him bashful.

— "I don't like my smile," he breathed out. "My teeth are crooked, there, see?"

Caressing the pinkish skin tenderly, Frances pulled his eyes back to hers. She was well aware that his canines pointed out when he smiled, it gave him an almost boyish look that she loved. The wolf of the fifth century, different and yet the same. Hers now.

— "You're so shy, Kristan, you don't even see the looks. You usually hide under this stern face and spurn people away. But I see through it, and honestly, I love it, so I can keep you to myself. But when we are together, you don't hide so much anymore, and the women, they take a look at the real you, and they can't help but be blinded."

It was more than he could take, and Kristan buried his head on the crook of her neck, his face ablaze from the compliment she'd just rained upon him.

— "Stop now, woman, I'll just die of embarrassment."

But she wouldn't be deterred. Her opinion was long overdue; she should have told him how proud she was to wander around attached to his arm like a lady of old.

— "Don't. You deserve all the admirative looks you can get. And much more, but no one will ever know how good you look without your clothes on, or how efficient this attractive body of yours is, or even how your heart is the best I have ever encountered."

A whimper interrupted her rant, and Frances embraced him fully against her.

— "You are charming, Kristan. And your shyness is so cute. Makes you even more lovable."

Those little words didn't go unnoticed, and he suddenly lifted his head to gaze down at her. Frances took a deep breath; it was now or never.

— "I love you, Kristan. I love you. I don't know why I as so afraid to say so, but I love you, heart, body and soul."

His eyes were shining underneath the shadow of his borsalino, grey hues so deep that her breath caught.

— "You have lost every one you have loved before Frances, including me," he murmured, his silky voice sending shivers down her spine. "You don't have to fear anymore, I am yours. And I will follow you to hell and back."

A tear escaped her eyes, the extent of his love so overwhelming that her arms trembled against his. To hell and back. The use of her expression wasn't lost on her, and she smiled, her heart soaring in delight at this incredible turn of events. She was so happy! A searing kiss was her response, and if his passion didn't deter the envious looks sent their way, then she didn't know what would!

Frances was humming, her skin basking in the afternoon sun, her fingers massaging Kristan's scalp. He relished in her gentle touch, the tiny waves of the Mediterranean Sea lulling him to sleep along with her voice. Frances sang all the time, her nearly eidetic memory causing her to remember anything she heard or read. Like the number Pi with 53 digits after the coma that she learnt as a child, a stupid challenge which, in turn, have proved useful in the Avalon Quest with her stargate team. Or the lyrics of a thousand different songs. French, English, Italian, Spanish, Latin… Gaelic. Her mind could take whatever was thrown in her way, and she would sing. He remembered how her voice had enchanted his fellow knights; he felt privileged to be by her side, now, the only recipient of her lullabies.

Her fingers caressed his skin, running along his hair, his jaw, massaging the tensions while the sun warmed them after a bath. Despite the crowd, they were but two lovers dancing around each other in the water. He, the knight, standing tall and proud and she, the sea spirit revolving around him. The siren that undulated in the warm water of the Mediterranean Sea as if she'd been born in its depths. As she set foot into the waves, Frances shed her worries and simply communiated with her element. Like a fish claiming its heritage – she was a Pisces after all. Those moments of blissful oblivion were scarce in their crazy life, but it gave them strength.

— "It is enjoyable?" came her uncertain voice.

— "Very"

Just a little word that didn't come close to describe how wonderful her caress made him feel. It was so intimate, so loving, that he wondered why he'd ever felt the need to hear those fated words. I love you. Still, they were sealed in his mind like a Hellenic carving. Three thousand years from here, when the last remains of the Parthenon had crushed into the earth, he'd remember them all the same.

— "I have no idea what I am doing," she eventually said. "But your hair is so soft, it is poetry."

Kristan smiled. Frances had no qualms about telling him how pleasing his body was. He, for one, was rather one of actions rather than words. But he'd evolved – a bit – and thrived now on telling her how beautiful she was. His fiery lady. Beautiful, tender, gentle, subtle and loving… Deadly as well, obstinate, stubborn as a mule, courageous and resourceful. Infuriating, sometimes. He wondered if they would travel together, to another world of the past. Would they see the knights again as she seemed to believe? For now, though, she needed another type of journey. This awful job was cutting her wings, ruining her self-confidence and killing her bravery. If those people didn't respect her for the great woman she was, it needed to stop.

— "Let us go, Elskede"

— "Want to go home, honey?"

The nickname had surprised him, at first; he'd never been quite associated with something sweet. People frowned upon his gruffness, the curtness of his answers or his aloof expression. He knew how impressive he seemed when he stood straight, all fangs exposed. No other than Frances had uncovered his hopeless romanticism before her; his ex-wife was the perfect Scandinavian woman. Tough, forward, and not in need or romantic – cheesy – attention. Yet, Frances has seen it at once, and embraced his tenderness with gentle care. Kristan propped on an elbow, digging in the scalding sand and gave her an intense look.

— "I have no home, here Frances."

Her eyes twinkled slightly in mischief.

— "Where is home, Kristan?"

The young woman bore holes into him, remembering this discussion, from long ago, held with his counterpart.

— "Home is where the heart is," he answered confidently, flinging her words right back. "Mine is yours. So in this life, at least, I know where home is."

Her eyes misted over slightly and Kristan grabbed her hand, rubbing his thumb over her palm.

— "This being said. I'm fed up with this place. I came here to find you, although I didn't know it at the time."

— "As I did. And this climate doesn't agree with me either."

Kristan nodded, sparing a glance at the locals, fashion victims and fancy sunglasses, showing off on the beach. Everything was so artificial here, even the sea was tamed. No wonder Frances felt out of place.

— "We don't belong here"

A wide gesture of his hand was enough for her to understand. The scorching heat, the absence of vegetation, the loud and disorganised people of the south. Nothing appealing to them, except for the seaside. Frances was as Nordic as he was. They would find another Ocean to settle by.

— "I'm in the mood for a long, long trip."

— "Where to?"

— "North. Scandinavia, Mongolia. I'd like to visit the remains of Sarmatia. I also want you to show me the place you've lived in and the wall of Hadrian as well. What do you think?"

Frances cocked her head aside, marvelling that Kristan would be so talkative now. His sentences were long, his responses detailed, more than mere grunts. What he suggested, though, caught her off guard.

— "You mean … a road trip?"

Her gaze was hopeful, laced with disbelief. This was a life-changing decision.

— "Yes. Let us roam the world, then we'll settle somewhere, and when the Keeper of Time is called again, I will be by your side.'

The young woman seemed to ponder his proposal, calculating, probably, if she could afford it. And what about Stargate Command? Bah, they would find her anywhere on earth if they needed, and they had, so far, no news from Daniel's trip to Atlantis. It was as good a time as any other. Her smile broadened, and she grabbed Kristan's shoulder enthusiastically, sending golden sand flying over.

— "I think I have enough money aside, from my time in Norway, to sustain us for a while."

Kristan nodded.

— "Until the SGC had need of us, or the world ends. So have I. I don't spend much, as you know. Think your blue candy will be up for the challenge?"

Frances lifted her eyebrow in her signature expression.

— "Absolutely"

— "So let's shed your job, I'll quit mine. Let us be free"

Freedom was, unfortunately, not so easily gained. Two days later found Frances sitting at her desk. The hour was growing late, her office mates had gone home. Another lightning shot through the sky and thunder rumbled across the countryside that laid behind the office. The gentle noise of falling rain soothing her bubbling mind; she needed to finish that damn test before she went home to her man. There was no one wandering around on the hill as the sky poured down everything it has stocked for so long. As the phone rang, Frances turned around from her contemplation and picked up the handset.

— "Hello, Frances here, how can I help you?" she asked, cautious as ever when answering an encrypted call.

— "Hey, hi. It's Daniel. Sorry I couldn't call earlier, I just came back from uh … my vacation island, you know? There one that disappeared from the maps."

Vacation island. Atlantis. Frances smiled, not totally surprised from his rambling, but totally at loss regarding the reason of his excuses. It was a nice surprise to hear him on the phone, you never knew what to expect with unknown numbers.

— "Hey Daniel. It's good to hear from you…"

— "Uh … yes…"

— "So what news?" she asked

He paused, apparently considering his next words for a second. There was a little bit of unease when his rambling rang through the handset:

— "Well you know, the situation here is … not ideal. But I have found some valuable info, we just need to run it through MALPs first."

Frances sighed in relief. Of course, he couldn't possibly tell her on the phone he had found the planets they were hunting down to find Merlin's weapons. Castiana and Sahal were still missing. But it sounded promising.

— "Oh. Did you find them?"

— "Yes. The two remaining ones, I have the coordinates from our favourite fairy"

The fairy; Morgan le Fay, otherly known as Ganos lal. Frances nearly sagged on her office chair, relieved by this piece of news. She had not realised how coiled her mind had been, fear running on the background since their last mission. Daniel's findings might very well be the key to defeat the Ori and prevent them from invading earth.

— "Great, now we're getting somewhere."

— " … and I read your email about your job as well and…"

Damn. As if her job issues held some importance in this war! How she regretted sending that mail in a fit of anger.

— "Ohhhh, no. I feel stupid now. It's not important, you know, I was just riled up I'm sorry I bothered you in the first place. You just have a knack for helping me sort out my thoughts."

— "Well, yes, of course, I hope your knight has been able to help in the meantime."

— "Yes. He's been…"

Frances paused for a second, considering how Kristan had helped her clear this mess out. Thanks to his insight, she had just written her letter of resignation and hoped to ditch away before her boss fell on her back. But none of it was important enough in the face of the Ori invasion. Daniel, though, refused to relent and questioned her about her annual review. Perhaps he needed it, to chill out from the stress of the Ori invasion.

— "He's been perfect, my knight."

After all, those issues she had at work were not big enough to make a fuss out of it, but the part of truth in her boss' insults had caught her off guard. What if they were right? How different was she from what she hoped she was? How tough had she become during those past years? What they thought about her, that she had changed people in a bad way, that she was rude and manipulative, unsettled her.

— "You know Daniel, it's not as important as our little crisis there so I don't want to keep you on the line while I'm complaining about useless things."

— "Frances"

She knew this tone; a lecture was coming.

— "I'm the one calling and I got at least a litre of black coffee on my desk right now, I got all the time of the world to get some proper news… And I'm too tired for research. I need a normal conversation for once in my life. Have you recently acuiqred a puppy ?"

Frances marked a pause, her eyebrows climbing upon her forehead.

— "Er, no"

— "Then let's talk about your job"

A chuckle escaped her as she reclined in her seat.

— "Thanks, that's great to have you"

Then she told him everything, furnishing a detailed report of her summer review. Daniel's conclusions, mainly, were less acidic than Kristan's but ran along the same lines. From what he knew about the people there, they just feared her influence. She'd shaken people out of their shell, pushing them to shed the muzzles, and unplug corks with highly explosive content. In a way she had been once more the catalyst, and the result was not to the manager's liking because it went countercurrent to their goals.

Why did she care if those people could not handle her unyielding character? Should she lie down because she was lower in the command chain? Jack would, of course, yell at this idea, and curiously Daniel, the ever pacifist, seemed rather entranced as well. If those people wanted to harass their employees, then she should not be abiding by their rules.

— "You're worth better than this Frances. Never think so low of yourself."

Frances would have cried over the phone had the office not been made of glass panes.

— "Thanks Daniel, you can't imagine how good that is to hear. I'm afraid that I might have been rude and a bit touchy…"

— "Of course you've reacted to their attacks. This situation is nonsense and you can't stand to be inefficient. You've always been a bit over the top but that's how we love you, and that's your drive. Your refusal to bow is so alike Jack, but that's about making things right"

Over the top, eh? Yeah, she could accept his words, for they were not meant to scold. Yes, she tended to overreact a bit…

— "Thanks, again…"

The image of Jack, refusing to bow to Goa'uld masters sent her into fits of giggles. Her N+2 certainly reacted like one sometimes.

— "You're welcome… You know I never thought that someday people could have you doubt yourself … after all you've been through; I cannot comprehend how this can touch you so much…"

Frances paused, considering her answer.

— "Daniel, how many times a day do you doubt yourself?"

— "Uh… OK, bad example you know, I'm not…"

She didn't give him time to ditch her question.

— "That's a great example, you're a hero, a legend… You see my point"

— "Quite well… And I'm not a hero."

Frances scoffed.

— "Ask the … people you work with. Hell, ask the president!"

— "I told you I was a bad example… Anyway. Are you considering the contract?"

His voice had changed during that last sentence. It went from resignation to hope and Frances couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. She was wanted there, needed there.

— "I … gave my resignation letter. Kristan and I were planning a long road trip. You know, a little freedom. But now you have a lead… I'm just afraid to get my knight involved; you know how he is."

— "Can't keep away from you?"

Frances smiled, a true genuine smile that lit up her features, one that could attest how badly she loved her man. Yes. They lived in each other's flats, moving together from one point to another. Never apart, ever since the day she'd taken him to her bed. What was the point when they'd waited for so long? Then she sobered. This was no laughing matter, and wouldn't be resolved gazing at the moon like a lovesick wolf.

If something happened to him…

— "I'm afraid, Daniel. He won't back down, you know. He's going to get himself killed."

— "We all might"

There was a pause on the line. Yes, the situation was dire enough if Daniel had lost hope.

— "I'll talk to him. To join you during the crisis"

— "That would be appreciated. By many. Jack would be so pleased."

Frances gnawed at her finger, a bad habit. Fortunately, Kristan wasn't here to swat her hands away from her teeth.

— "I have a little administrative issue here. Three months' notice as per French law. I don't know how to solve it."

Her mind was already considering less than recommendable solutions, such as abandoning her post altogether – which would be bad for future employment – or finding a doctor for a false sick leave. None of them were satisfactory. Daniel's nonchalant voice, however, told her not to worry.

— "Oh, I think we can find a way around that."

— "Excuse me?"

— "Well, uh, I talked to Jack, and he said he can arrange it. We're in a tough situation here and were considering stealing you for the next month anyway so that will just be plain easier to take you away without the notice. If the President gives an order, I doubt your government will resist it."

As Frances gasped in surprise, Daniel couldn't help but snicker on the other end of the line.

— "That might teach them manners…"

Frances couldn't believe her ears. She had no idea Jack would pull such a prank! With the president!

— "That might, or not… That will be the gossip of the year, and that's an understatement."

Daniel's voice was smiling.

— "Are you not used to it yet?"

— "Yeah… I guess. Do I need to get a plane ticket?"

— "Nope, we'll be ready for you both. Express airforce you know, mind the turbulence,"

Frances started laughing, reminding the witty comment she had given them the time him and Mitchell in Norway.

— "I'll never get away with this, will I?"

— "Well, from me perhaps, but from Cameron you have no chance. Anyway, I got to go now but I'll talk to Jack."

His voice was getting wearier by the minute.

— "Got some research to do?"

— "Yeah, quite some stuff to read and translate."

Frances frowned; she knew he would end up sprawled on his desk, sleeping in between sheets and artifacts if Sam didn't barge in to pull him into bed.

— "Can I help you?"

— "Naaah. Get some quality time with your knight before all hell breaks loose. You can sleep in my office when you're here given the quantity of stuff I have to deal with."

— "OK then, get a puff."

She was joking, of course. Kristan would never let her sleep in Daniel's office like she used to do.

— "Puff and pillows, no worries, I've kept your seat fresh."

— "Thanks so much for your support, Daniel"

When Frances hung up, her feelings were all over the place. Quite obviously, her road trip was cancelled until further notice; she hoped that Kristan wouldn't be too disappointed. The heart of her worries, though, lay elsewhere. In a few days, they'd embark on an adventure that might very well kill both of them, unless she could convince her knight to stay behind. Pigs might very well fly… The Ori had invaded the galaxy, the SGC being the first and last line of defence against it. She was dragging Kristan into the biggest mess ever. How she wished they'd had more time together before being, once more, into a life or death situation.

A fervent prayer to the Valar later, Frances was quite ready to go home. She dodged her boss, whose voice could be heard from the other side of the building, to avoid meeting him and his stupid demands lest she punch him. Now was not the time to discuss her resignation terms. Frances jumped in her blue candy with a sigh, her hands caressing the steering wheel regretfully.


	18. Chapter 18 - Presidential setback

**_I dedicate this chapter to anybody who has been morally harassed by a shitty boss. Don't stand for it, fight back. Let them know belittle someone, his work or his character is not acceptable without proper arguments. Get help, don't question yourself ten times a day, and kick their asses back. Bosses are entitled to have problems, they are not entitled to make you pay for it. You don't have their paycheck, you don't share their burden. Cheers!_**

**_And yes, 3 months notice … this is long when you don't want to be there anymore. But it goes both ways, you can't be fired either without the notice so it gives people time to find something else._**

**_As usual, French is in italics. I didn't feel it was necessary to inflict upon you the original version, although you can ask for it if you feel like learning French hehe. Anyway, I had so much fun writing this. It is payback, and it is personal but I still hope you can enjoy it. Jack is so playful, and so is Henry Hayes._**

She'd been so ready, to get her swift on the road with Kristan, and forget about the responsibilities of the world. Just a few months, half a year maybe, to relish in the joy of his presence and patch herself up from the hardships of the past. But it was not to be. Frances drove home with a little more resentment than usual, dodging other cars angrily until she parked down her building. Kristan was there, his hands deftly slicing into peppers and onions for dinner. The sight of him, bare-chested under the apron, sent a fresh wave of love through her heart. Yet, it didn't lift her mood, and her wonderful man picked up on her distress as soon as his eyes met hers.

Frances only shrugged, circling the kitchen counter to engulf him from behind, resting her cheek over his bare back and closing her eyes. Kristan froze, setting his knife down, accepting the extra heat without complaining despite the stifling heat. For a moment, neither said a word as the young woman relished in the beating of his heart, strong and sturdy, echoing in his chest. Its regular thud caressed her cheek, grounding her, giving her strength. Then, at last, Kristan twisted in her arms and gazed into her eyes.

— "What happened? Ran into trouble with your resignation?"

Frances struggled to meet his inquisitive stare. This was no matter of French regulations, or resignation letter delay. No. This was way, way worse.

— "The SGC called."

Swallowing audibly, Kristan folded his long arms around her, crushing her to his chest in an attempt to soften the blow.

— "We will be ready," came his determined voice.

Frances's arms tightened around him, drawing a little of his strength as his warm body enclosed hers. Just a little while, relishing in the raw power flowing through his veins. At last, Frances sighed; she needed to man up, and detached herself from the man she loved. It was worth a try. Albeit the battle was lost even before it was engaged; his jaw was set, his eyes steely as he gazed upon her.

— "Is there any way…"

Kristan cut her off, his voice stern. Tristan's determination shone in the hard lines of his features.

— "No. I'm coming with you."

— "Right. You don't even need me to finish my sentences."

A sad smile quirked Kristan's sensual lips, his hand brushing a stray strand of fiery hair out of her face.

— "You were not going to ask if I could take the garbage down, right?"

Frances shook her head, amused by his attempt to lift the mood when the ringing of her phone caught her attention. She scurried away to her bag, lifting its leather cover in haste to rummage through her mess.

— "It's Jack's tone," she said, failing to find the offending device.

Realisation dawned on Kristan's face.

— "Oh. That's why you took it last time, you've got a special tone for the SGC."

— "Yeah. And one for Jack as well. Damn phone!"

Kristan took the bag from her hands, and extracted the offending device a moment later, facing a gaping Frances.

— "How? Never mind"

Shaking her head at her magical man, she picked up the call.

— "Hey Jack"

— "Hey Kiddo. What do you say if we pick you up three days from now?"

Frances turned to Kristan who had resumed his slicing and dicing, mouthing three days to him. Her man nodded, and she breathed in relief that he would be so accommodating. How the hell were they going to handle cleaning their apartment and storing their stuff in so little time?

— "Hum, all right. Difficult, but feasible. By the way, who's we?"

There was a slight hesitation on the line; Jack was either embarrassed either pausing from dramatic effect.

— "Er. Myself, Daniel, and Henry"

Frances almost choked on her own saliva.

— "You gotta be freaking kidding me!"

Kristan frowned at her outburst, mouthing silently 'Qui c'est ?'. (Who's that?). She lifted a hand to stall him until she was sure of her response.

— "Nope," came Jack's playful voice.

Rolling her eyes, she could almost see his smug smile. Kristan's eyes were intense, set on her face. Frances put Jack on speaker so that her knight could participate in the conversation. Not that she expected him to comment, mind you. But he would, at least, hear them out.

— "So… Henry. We're speaking about the same Henry, right? The President of United States Henry, not Henry the janitor?"

— "Yep"

There it was, the little popping that Jack was fond of and betrayed his amusement. Frances almost slid to the floor like warm jelly, her legs having trouble keeping her upright.

— "My freaking God that's … that's unbelievable…"

Kristan's eyebrows nearly met his hairline, and he gestured to Frances while whispering, 'THE president, here?' She nodded, suddenly suspicious.

— "And pray tell, how did that come to be?"

Jack chuckled.

— "Damn, you're speaking like a lady again, Frances."

Kristan's eyebrows shot up, a faint smile lifting the corner of his lips. Frances's travels as the Keeper of Time permeated her so strongly that her speech sometimes swam between formal, medieval and modern. It all depended on the mood and the feelings she wanted to convey, and seemed to have little control over it. Especially when she settled to write her adventure, or read it anew.

— "Sorry. Don't dodge my question," came her stern reply.

— "Well, you know, Henry was quite outraged by your company's treatment of a US asset."

Frances deflated, shame overcoming her as she realised that her outburst over a stupid annual review had been shared with the president of the United States. Beside her, Kristan pursed his lips to refrain from laughing, and gently set his hand between her shoulder blades. She couldn't lift her head to meet his gaze, her face reddening by the minute.

— "Outraged? Jack, did you talk to Daniel? Have you been splashing my life?"

— "OK, OK, you got me. I was very pissed when I told him I had made a temporary contract for you and your knight, and he asked why you accepted it in the first place,"

Frances sighed in relief; she knew how Jack's bad mood could be communicative and his explanation made sense. Still, she should have known better than to complain. Had she kept her cool, and refrained from sending that mail to Daniel, her demise could have stayed private. What a shame! To lose her temper like this, damn!

— "That makes sense then."

— "Anyway, he said it had been awhile he wanted a few days in the south of France, and that August was the best period, and I suspect that he'd been craving for a reason to experience the hum … airforce express,"

France laughed heartily at this. During her last brief meeting, President Hayes he had nearly pleaded to be beamed aboard the Daedalus; Frances knew he would find a way to experience a little space flight. The President was definitely more straightforward than expected, and it was no wonder him and Jack got along well. She had also been surprised that he had read most of their mission reports. Even if she was not a woman to sweep the floor in front of the hierarchy, he had impressed her. And he was the President of the United States, goddamnit!

— "You know the man kiddo, when he has decided something there is nothing that can change his mind, even if the head security if ready to omit suicide with his announcement…"

Frances braced her hands on the counter. The President has already made his announcement; there was no way back. But … it was going to be so much fun! The young woman shared a smile with Kristan whose eye cringed in amusement – just the way she liked it.

— "Well, that's going to be a first, I want to see my boss' face when he receives that phone call."

— "Actually me too, I'm sure we can arrange a phone conference…"

Jack's mischievous retort made her laugh, but somehow, she felt unsettled by his idea.

— "Do you really think that the President has nothing better to do that the planning of this little event?"

— "Henry is playful. It's vacation time. He always dreamt of kicking French assess and that's the perfect opportunity for him to do so without creating any diplomatic incident…"

Somewhere in the back of her brain, her analytical mind was screaming bloody murder. Her feelings, though, were all over the place, blocking her rational thoughts easily.

— "My god, I hope the press won't make such a fuss about that, I do not want friends and family to get mixed to this mess."

— "No worries, I'll take care of your retrieval myself, that will be a little bit less dull than my usual paperwork…"

She had a bad feeling about this. Albeit, to be honest, having Jack around her insufferable boss was a rare treat.

— "Jack? Why do I feel like you are planning to enjoy yourself much more than would be needed?"

— "Who, meeee?"

His feigned innocence confirmed her doubts, and she whined in a perfect impersonation of Daniel's voice.

— "Jaaaaack"

— "Come on, I don't need a second Daniel here! I'll play nice … or not."

Frances snorted on the other side of the Atlantic, Kristan's hand passing from her shoulder blades to her neck in a sensual gesture. Then he murmured into her ear:

— "They deserved everything they're going to get. Don't spoil the fun, little fairy."

The young woman leaned into his embrace, her body humming at the contact before addressing the phone again. If even Kristan was set on playing the prank, what could she do? Defeat or acceptance? And somewhere in the back of her mind, she had to admit that the perspective of this day made her giddy.

— "That's the craziest idea ever…", she smiled.

— "Ah, come on kiddo, drop the stick up your…"

— "Jack!"

— "Anyway. Who else than the President to pick you up at work? Even Daniel agrees to this… That's classy!"

Kristan bent forward, resting his elbows on the counter as Frances turned beet red.

— "Super classy, General O'Neill. On behalf of Frances, I thank you."

— "Hey, sir knight. Don't worry, you're invited to the party."

A full grin bloomed on Kristan's lips as his eyes twinkled in mischief.

— "Wouldn't miss it for the world, general, they'll see the retribution is swift when harassing my woman."

Frances banged her head on the counter, torn between laughter and dread as Kristan and Jack exchanged the best disguised threat there ever was.

— "You're nuts, the two of you," came her muffled voice. "And that's why I love you both. Who's coming by the way?"

— "Well, Henry, me, obviously and a few security people that I will scatter around. Daniel, of course, we need someone who speaks 23 languages if we have to communicate with those morons. That won't be a big fuss you know, but enough for your boss to swallow her dislike and make her green from head to toes."

— "That's mean! I love it!"

— "Isn't life a bitch?"

At this comment, the young woman couldn't help but burst out laughing. Her heart was warmed by this altogether crazy scheme. This little incident, which should have stayed hidden, had taken huge proportion because of her heavy temper. Of course she had flaws, and most of their friends were dealing with that. Their support meant the world to her. Kristan had fumed, telling her that never again she would have to bow to illegitimate authority. He'd known slavery, his life only preserved by the love and admiration of their commander, Artorius Castus. He knew the importance of strong leadership, and the price of a poor one.

The way they treated his woman was unacceptable, and it was just as well the SGC had decided to retrieve her else … who knew what would have happened to her boss. Somewhere in this modern knight still simmered the fearsome scout. Tristan wasn't buried so far down…

Frances hung up, quite undecided whether she felt elated or horrified by Jack's meddling – he was so bored in Washington that he couldn't help finding fun at the expense of others. Lips pursed, she was nearly surprised when Kristan's hand covered hers and pulled her in for a chaste kiss.

— "There, elskede. You will depart the life of engineers with a great sortie."

His voice was barely a purr, like a caress to her ears and Frances watched him in awe – how did she deserve him again? The twinkle in his grey eyes told him everything she needed to know; Kristan was planning to have lots of fun as well. It was just as well; a good memory before war started again and swept them off their feet in the tumble dryer.

— "Yeah, I didn't get a grand entrance so it's only fair," she retorted playfully.

The tip of his tongue ran across his upper teeth in a nervous gesture and she had to refrain from jumping him, finding him adorable; the softer side to a ruthless warrior.

— "So, erm. How well do you know the President?"

— "Not well enough to call him by his first name; I only met him once. Jack, on the other hand…"

Frances was ushered for the first time in the big boss' office and her manager closed the door with febrile hands before sitting across her. Caroline – fifty years old, smartly dressed and a haughty disposition – was dead silent, her face paler than usual. The Keeper of Time savoured for once the little power she was granted. From their battered look it seemed that Jack had gone a little over the top with the special effects.

— "I just received the order to have a phone conference with the head of Homeworld security in the US in less than ten minutes, and to have you in my office. What's this mess about?"

— "Homeworld security? What the hell is that anyway?" exclaimed Jean-Pierre, "What do they want?"

Frances refrained a smirk, wondering instead if Jack had been the caller.

— "It was General O'Neill you got on the phone?"

Caroline seemed shaken.

— "Uh yes, I think."

— "Wicked humour? Disregard for formalities?"

The head boss addressed her a single nod, her blond strands swaying as she tried to assess the possible consequences of this unforeseen mess; her young employee seemed to be on good terms with a high-class officer of the United States. If Frances got them into trouble, she would have Jean-Pierre's ass for recruiting her. He was her N+1 after all.

— "_That's him, then_," confirmed Frances with a genuine smile.

— "_Friend of yours_?" asked her manager sarcastically, his nonchalant ways barely concealing the spite.

Frances' eyebrow shot up in a show of defiance.

— "_Actually yes_," she answered calmly, watching their features reflect pure astonishment. "_He's a close acquaintance of the president."_

— _"And you got any idea of what he wants?"_

— _"That would be me, I guess. This meeting is probably linked to my letter of resignation."_

Caroline glared daggers at her subordinate who seemed to shrink on his chair. Funny, how a man twice Frances' size could nearly disappear when in the line of fire when he usually used his stature to dominate. Especially younger and female employees.

— _"Your letter of…?"_

Jean-Pierre's features fell sheepishly; the man knew how temperamental Caroline could be and he expected quite a tongue lashing.

— _"Yeah, I didn't get time to talk to you about that yet."_

Her soon to be former boss tried to save the situation by addressing Frances with a very paternal tone.

— _"If that is because of what I told you on Friday, we need to talk…"_

The young woman lifted an eyebrow; she was impervious to manipulation.

— _"We talked already, but you didn't want to hear me. And it is not the main reason, no. There are more important things in this world than a review. Still if it is easier for you to hold me responsible for your mess, I do not care, but I am not staying in a company that refuses to see its flaws and accuses others for it."_

Her manager exhaled through his nose, and started ranting.

— _"Come on, don't react like a kid…"_

— _"I am reacting like a kid? Let me laugh to death"_

Wishing to avoid a re-enactment of the fight, Caroline held her hand up in a commanding gesture.

— "_Don't get started, you two! We've got two minutes to sort this mess out. What's the link with …__?"_

Frances gave her a smug look. Caroline was such a tart in English that she couldn't even remember Jack's title.

— "Homeworld security?"

— _"Yes"_

— "_It has to do that I signed up a contract with them, and that they are probably contacting you to negotiate my release."_

Her boss nearly jumped from his seat.

— _"You signed up a contract with the American government?"_

— _"Yes"_

Caroline shot her a dark look, possibly trying to assess how she'd been able to crush her.

— _"When?"_

— _"Yesterday"_

Her boss's frown was the best reward ever. How good it was to feel smug for once, Frances would have to thank Henry Hayes for this great moment of fun.

— "_You can't do that, you are my employee!"_

— _"Listen, it's been a while they are on my tail, but until now I was quite content with keeping a career here. Now they have urgent need of me, and it takes precedence over the rest."_

And now that the Keeper of Time business was known, she could actually accept it without fearing to be discovered. A fact she purposely kept out of the explanation, of course. Jean-Pierre gave her a condescending smile, seeing through the game while Caroline tried to appeal to the greatness of the international company.

— _"What could possibly take precedence over such a great company?" she added._

Frances almost snorted. A massive attack on the galaxy, does it range higher than the greatness of an oil company?

And despite the fact that her boss's words had been the last straw, it didn't change the fact that the SGC needed her … them. Kristan and herself. And if the Valar had decided to kick her out of her comfort zone – namely the company she worked in for the past three years – she needed to step up for the challenge. And accept to put Kristan in danger by dragging him by her side.

— _"Listen. This is a matter of National Security. I should have said yes a long time ago, you just helped me take the right decision so I should actually thank you for pushing me out"_

Jean-Pierre's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull, the realisation that is behaviour had reached far beyond the confines of his little team sinking in. He was in for a good thrashing and didn't look forward to it. Damn that stupid kid! He should have left her in Norway!

— "_So what now_?" asked Caroline, ever practical

— "_Well, I'm leaving obviously._"

A cold sneer marred her face.

— "_You owe the company two-month notice._"

— _"Oh," Frances said. "I thought it was three…"_

Jean-Pierre's sneer shut her up as Caroline's screen started beeping.

— _ "Never mind_," she shrugged.

Frances turned to the complicated software they'd had to install to keep the conversation private. A white house Skype of sorts. They had probably lost a few hours in the process… Nothing new here. Her manager reclined in his seat, pissed off with the turn of the situation. The team was stretched, and he needed Frances to do her part; despite his remarks on her character, she worked fast compared to the other newbies. Without her, they would have no choice but to postpone the release of the software.

— "_That's the law_," Jean-Pierre muttered.

Frances shot him a hard look.

— "_Like you care about the law… And everything is negotiable, right_?"

Caroline started the software that would bind them to the white house, a fact they ignored yet.

— "_So who's on the other side_?" said her manager while gesturing to Frances a seat on the other side of Caroline.

— "_If I guess well the chief of homeworld security, maybe his boss._"

Caroline frowned, she badly wanted to ask about this title, Homeworld security but the twinkle in Frances' eyes called a shiver down her spine. The young woman was hiding something, and looking forward to this call to the United States; something was off.

— "_His boss_?" enquired Caroline

— "_Yes_…" she said cryptically

The dark screen beeped to life and a high-quality image showed up. President Hayes was sitting at his desk for more effect, and General O'Neill stood on his right clad in his full uniform. The trick worked fine; a sharp intake of breath from both her bosses told her so.

— "Mr. President!" exclaimed her manager, nearly jumping in his seat.

— "Good afternoon," stuttered Caroline, her eyes wide like flying saucers.

Jack snorted behind the President's desk, choosing to bend forward as if granting a confidence.

— "Actually, it is morning in the White House."

Caroline blanched and grit her teeth, embarrassed by her own stupidity. Stress had short circuited her brain and she breathed to regain her composure.

— "Yes, of course, of course, sorry"

Frances chose, for her part, to steal a formal acknowledgment from Thor.

— "Greetings," she said.

Jack smirked; he'd caught that one all right.

— "Hello Miss, it is good to see you again," answered the President with a smile.

Frances inclined her head in a formal bow, noting how, in a few words, Henry Hayes had informed her bosses that they indeed knew each other. Despite his straightforwardness, he was a fine politician.

— "Likewise Mr. President"

— "Hey kiddo!" exclaimed Jack from behind him, his smirk getting wider with the surprise effect.

— "Hey Jack!" she answered nicely.

The look of utter disbelief on her manager's face was a sight she'd remember to her death. She commuted it to memory, just for the sake of describing it to Kristan.

— "Well, well, now that introductions have been made we can probably discuss the reason for my meeting request," stated President Hayes, ignoring superbly that none of her managers had been given time to speak their names and titles.

Caroline gave a hypocritical smile.

— "Yes, of course"

— "I need this young woman to work for me, now. I am aware that this is a short notice, but I am sure you will understand that this is a matter of National Security"

Caroline was overwhelmed by the national security arguments and wondering how she would dance around it.

— "Of course, of course" she answered like a machine, her mind looking for leverage to get something out of it.

And then, the hammer fell down, its ripple effect enough to upturn the hill.

— "So how soon can I come and pick her up?"

At these words, the two managers nearly choked to death while swallowing their saliva, and Frances snickered silently.

— "You want to come here?"

— "You don't look happy about me visiting. Frances is a precious woman that must be treated with care. Would you not allow the President of the United States to make a short visit?"

Caroline was almost grovelling at his feet by now, and Frances quirked an eyebrow. Henry Hayes' words had touched her heart, even if he was having way too much fun at her boss's expense. By his side, Jack's smile almost split his face.

— "Oh, yes, of course, Mr President, please excuse my rudeness, we would be honoured to have you. Of course you can visit whenever you want."

— "You're forgiven" he said nicely, like a king to a commoner. If it didn't send her overboard with shame, Frances didn't know what would. "We'll be here in three days. That would give you enough time to get a buffet done for the departure of your employee."

Her boss gave her a startled sideways glance; he was utterly lost.

— "Yes, yes, I'm sure this can be arranged," she said, panic rising in her throat. "How many people would that be?"

— "Well, mainly me, and my Homeworld security chief there, and probably a few security people but do not worry for this. General O'Neill will fill you in regarding details, I got another important meeting in no time so I bid you farewell."

— "Of course Mr President, it will be an honour to welcome you."

— "Good, then I wish you a pleasant evening and am glad we could come to terms regarding the employment of this young lady. Frances, I'm looking forward to meeting you again."

— "Good day to you Mr President," said Caroline.

Frances' boss also started a sentence, but the screen had turned dark again before he finished it, and he sent a death glare to his employee. As silence came back in the room, the Keeper of Time struggled not to burst out in laughter. Both her bosses were regretting bitterly to have unleashed their frustrations and assumptions on her. Hell, that President seemed a bit pissed off, and Caroline had even been qualified as rude; one of the main misgivings she had launched on Frances. The daily power abuse had for the first time stricken back, and that was a hard blow to swallow.

— "_Well, I guess I'm no longer needed then_," said Frances casually, seeing her direct manager passing from red to purple in anger

— "_Why didn't you tell us about all of this before?"_ he exploded.

In truth, Frances was surprised he had kept his temper in check for so long. Jean-Pierre had the nastiest habit of speaking out of turn and unleashing his wrath and rants onto innocent bystanders. Her eyes darkened, and she stood to her full height. Never before had they seen her wrath; she'd never shown her Keeper of Time's persona slip up in the office. But today was a day unlike others.

— "_That President Hayes was an acquaintance? Because it wasn't relevant to this job." _

— _"But we could have…"_

Frances slammed her hand down on the table, startling both of her bosses.

— "_Listen up! I'm not one for boasting, unlike some. You knew when you hired me that I sometimes worked as a contractor for them. The fact that I have made good friends while doing so is part of my personal life and you had no say in this."_

— _"But…"_

— _"Can I leave now? Surely if I have two days left, it could be good that I organise the tasks and data to pass it on."_

— "_Get out!_" hissed Caroline, urging her outside and banging the door behind her.

The shouting match that ensued could be heard in the whole building, but Frances had not a care in the world. She needed to clean up her work and document for her poor colleagues to resume where she stopped. For a moment, she almost felt guilty to leave them with such a load. But then, reality reminded her that she and SG1 protected them, indirectly, and that she might very well die for employees to continue their dull existence in the office. So, in the end, she didn't feel so guilty anymore. It was up to everyone to share the burden. She, battling the Oris with her knight, and them … doing nonsense with horrible bosses.

**_To Koba: so great you're going to Italy! It's the best place in the world, I've been at least 8 times (that I remember well…) and passed the border so often because I used to live nearby. Where are you headed? Maybe I can help. Let me know, I can give you my mail address if you want some tips._**


	19. Chapter 19 - Air Force One

**_As usual, French in italics. You'll get to see the SG1 a little, but not for long before… you'll see _**

It should have been a day like any other, the sun shining and the heat blazing. A typical summer day in south of France. As she set foot in the office after her last lunch break, Frances couldn't help but sigh. In 7 months, she had met nice people that could have become friends, especially those two teammates that came from the same engineering school, a year apart from her. They had gone to the beach, shared waffles on Sunday mornings, and biked to work many times. But this easy acquaintance simply couldn't get any further.

There also was this lady from the front desk who had organised things so neatly for her departure, and hugged her a thousand times, and the dozen computer science guys with whom she interacted on a daily basis. Even the building, this rounded form on top of the hill overlooking the sea when the weather was nice, was now a part of her. Part of her life, part of her past. Good riddance?

By leaving this place, she also left her career, her studies, everything she had worked for in hopes of a normal life behind. And despite the harshness of her boss, and the stupidity of this job, it still sent a pang to her heart. Frances had a knack for binding with people, she just couldn't help it. Any nice gesture thrown her way and she melted, any connexion and she was hooked. A nice change from her students years where she never let anyone approach.

What had changed? The acute knowledge that life was short, and she should enjoy every single moment of it. There were so many deaths in her wake, so many friends left behind and she never wanted to feel the same regret again. The one after Boromir's death, thinking how they had stupidly fought sometimes. Regrets after Tristan's death … of an unknown nature at the time. Regrets after leaving middle earth, leaving those close friends behind…

Tomorrow, who knew what she would be doing? Battling aliens? Struggling against giant plants? Being captured by other life forms? Being burnt alive by the Ori? As a matter of fact, nothing of this, but Frances, for once, was oblivious about what awaited her. How could she even fathom where the Keeper of Time's duty could take her?

Damn. For the moment, she knew only this; tomorrow, she would be locked in the 49th level of the base or going through the gate. The lazy life of sunshine and seaside was over.

A hand slipped into hers, squeezing slightly, before Frances pulled her swipe card to get access the main hall. A smile quirked her lips; she didn't jump anymore when Kristan surprised her. She had got used to his silent ways, and to his presence. His touch was so familiar, so comforting that she would recognise with her eyes closed. His sturdiness grounded her, the poise of the silent knight. A shadow, to guard her back and brighten her days.

Tomorrow, wherever she was… Kristan would be there. And she wouldn't get back to her old life for the world. Ever since her knight had walked back into his life, the colours had brightened in his wake. Frances was living again. Now more than ever, she was determined to preserve peace so that she could enjoy it with the man she had chosen as her mate.

— "The flats are settled, and here's the key to the furniture storage unit," he said.

Efficient, as always. Kristan had worked with the moving companies to relieve their respective flats from furniture and cardboxes and stored it all in containers until they knew their next destination. One less thing to worry about.

— "Good, you keep it."

Kristan nodded, pushing the item in his pocket – the key to their life – before he circled her waist and dragged her for a kiss. And despite the scorching heat, Frances didn't even think of pulling away. His tongue swirled in her mouth languidly, his lips dancing in the sweetest of caresses. When the kiss ended, Frances had almost forgotten why she was there. The young woman blinked, taking in the linen tunic that covered his well-defined chest, the same one they had bought together. She smiled, her fingers grazing the medieval collar, then caressing the tips of his mid-long hair. A nice choice for the day; she had also made an effort to look professional despite the crushing sunshine, pulling out linen pants and a cotton blouse with short sleeves that matched Kristan's style. Her hair was pulled tight in a French braid; way too hot to allow it along her back unless she wanted to end up a sweaty mess. The reddish strands contrasted with the light colours of her top, and she had applied a little make-up. Classy, but not too formal. Just the right amount of respect to welcome the President, but nothing over the top to indicate they were grovelling. This wasn't a charity opera.

Frances sent an appreciative glance to her man; he looked fantastic in his understated glory. She knew they would look underdressed compared to the managers; she couldn't care less. Class was about the right form and material, not about accessories and looking like a Christmas tree. And both of them felt better knowing they could move properly in their attire; with Jack O'Neill here, you never knew what could happen.

The white tents, aligned on the parking lot to welcome the president party, looked neat. Cicadas sung their usual song and the pine trees upon the surrounding hill trembled in the overheated air, the ground burnt yellow by the summer sun. She couldn't fathom how the security people would survive this heat with their Kevlar vest. If Jack wore his uniform, he was going to sweat to death. A grumpy O'Neill, oh no! Perhaps it wasn't too late to tell him the temperature.

Fishing her mobile phone from her bag, Frances sat upon the little wall bordering the palm trees that faced her office.

'It's very hot today. If you can forgo the uniform, I advise you to shed it' — Frances.

It didn't take long – not more than a couple of other kisses – for her mobile to ding.

'No can do. ETA 15.30' – Jack

Frances showed her screen to Kristan before writing her answer, her man's lips nibbling at her neck. It took her twice as long to type this last message as her brain had trouble concentrating.

'Neat. Perfect time for a snack. You will love what they laid out for you.' — Frances

The lovers stayed outside for a while, relishing in the shade provided by the palm trees as they greeted colleagues returning from their lunch break. Most had never met Kristan, nor heard of him so they all seemed rather surprised by his presence – those who cared, at least. The others were just happy to shake his hand and be gone. There was excitement in the air though; a visit by the President of United States put a lot of people on edge. When at last, 2 o'clock came, Frances steeled herself and stood.

— "It's time. I need to handover my work and give my computer back."

Kristan stood as well, brushing a reddish stray curl that had escaped the braid with a loving gesture. The young woman closed her eyes, leaning into his hand. It was weird, to see Frances at work. The dynamic between her co-workers, her occasional conversations, software-related, and the careful glint in her eyes that hid her true nature. Had he worked here, Kristan knew he would have been intrigued by the impressive amount of things she didn't say. Without lying, she was deceptive as hell. But people pursuing a career, especially in a company like this, didn't seem to care much about her hobbies. Nor about the fact that she could travel through time, or had saved the world from aliens a bunch of times. The façade she showed; the normal Frances was just about to disappear. And somehow, Kristan could see how much it affected her.

— "Ready?"

— "Can I ever be? I've never got used to saying goodbye. I feel like I leave a part of me every single time."

The knight nodded, memories of long-lost brothers fresh in his mind. Being the Keeper of Time, Frances had to leave behind more than most.

— "_Hey Kristan!"_

Frances almost rolled her eyes as Lucie, the ever-besotted fencing student, waved at her former instructor from the parking lot. Behind her, Aurélien, their LARP colleague, sent them a beaming smile but remained silent. Already, Lucie was striding to them.

— _"It's great to see you. I thought you had gone back to Denmark, with you quitting and all."_

Shedding her sunglasses with the intention to kiss his cheeks the French way, her blue eyes roamed over Kristan in appreciation. Frances stifled a laugh, remembering how the little blonde had described him as '_a bit gruff, a great archer and swordsman. And definitely a looker' _at the LARP event_._ She couldn't fault Lucie's assessment, all of this was true. Especially with his tanned skin and strands discoloured by sun and salt.

— _ "It's not the same without you_," Lucie said, nearly battling her eyelashes.

Her beaming smile, though, fell when she realised how close Frances was standing to her crush. A few feet behind, Aurélien's face sported a wide smile and he came forward with a hand outstretched.

— "_Ah, good to see you Kristan. Whatcha doing here_? _It's not the best day to hop by, with all this nonsense. The security is going to kick you out._"

— _"I'd like to see them try_," Kristan growled playfully.

And for the tiniest of moments, Tristan was back. Her colleagues seemed taken aback, neither knowing if they should laugh until Frances piped in her two cents.

— "_Don't worry, he's invited to the party."_

Aurélien's rusty eyebrows formed a funny knot, then he shrugged.

— _"Really? Good."_

It was almost funny how the redhead could accept anything, like he cared about nothing at all. Perhaps it was quite the case. But Lucie still expected a response, and Kristan wasn't shy as his hand slipped around Frances' waist.

— _"This is Frances' last day, we're here to say goodbye."_

This time, Lucie almost glowered at Frances, her wide blue eyes angered by the obvious affection that existed between her former instructor and his little fairy. When you think that she presented them at the LARP, this truly was unfair! Little did she know that she never stood a chance, being dubbed a child from Kristan's first glance.

— _"You are leaving together?" _she said, eyes narrowing.

While in truth, she asked 'are you living together ?'

— _"Yes."_

Kristan didn't know what else to say, neither did he know what the company had told their employees about the President's visit so he didn't elaborate. Lucie huffed, and wished him well before she disappeared in the building with angry strides. Aurélien gave them an uneasy smile and strode after his colleague. As the couple followed, Frances whispered to Kristan's ear.

— "_She had the hell of a crush on you. I almost feel sorry for her_."

— "_I know._ _Life is a bitch_," Kristan answered, choosing to quote General O'Neill.

His heart had chosen fifteen hundred years ago; nothing could be done about it.

Needless to say, that the arrival of Henry Hayes, Mr President in person, was every bit as intimidating as they expected it to be. Most of the employees were stacked in the hall or in the tents when they showed up, security, uniform for Jack and very fancy suit for the President adorned with a pair of sunglasses. He even wore a hat; something Frances and Kristan had not dared doing. The company's bosses were neatly aligned, like a row of servants in the old days – very Downtown Abbey – before the glass panes of the main entrance. To their side, much to the employees' confusions stood The Keeper of Time and the former knight of the round table. Well, to the others, Frances and her boyfriend. Their placement raised many questions among the crowd … they would not be disappointed.

If protocol should have drawn the President to walk up to Caroline first, he ignored it cheekily and strode to Frances at once, sunglasses firmly in place. The young woman knew she shouldn't be surprised; after all, it was the same man who had told Anubis, an ascended villain, to shove it up his… Behind him, General O'Neill awaited with a mischievous smile, hat firmly in place to protect his eyes from the sun.

— "I am glad to see you again, young lady," he said, shaking her hand.

— "Thank you for having me, Mr President," she responded with fondness.

How could she repay that man for the honour?

— "Please call me Henry. You're not on duty today.", he said loud enough to be overheard.

That was the last straw. Albeit the encounter was very informal – despite the thirty or so security guys hiding in the surroundings – he meant to make his point. Frances nodded, a lopsided smile quirking her lips at realising his message. It wasn't an invitation to be on first name basis, no. Just a little low blow to her boss' ego, a few feet away. Frances gave him a genuine smile, amused by his antics until O'Neill engulfed her in a hug, formal hat still in place.

— "Hey kiddo"

By now, the President was shaking Kristan's hand with as much enthusiasm as hers. And for the first time in forever, the former knight seemed slightly awed to meet, in person, a figure he had only seen on TV.

— "An honour to meet you, sir," he said.

— "The honour is shared, if you catch my meaning."

And as Jack's arms released her, Frances realised that Henry Hayes was just as floored to be meeting a former knight of the round table. Tristan was a legend, after all ! Before he strode away to greet her boss – Jean-Pierre – and Caroline, Jack whispered in her ear.

— "I like the view. Too bad this place it is filled with morons."

Frances laughed, and from then, everything went smoothly. Daniel had told Jack that an international company didn't need a translator and that he had work to do. No amount of whining had managed to bend him to Jack's wishes, so the General took his revenge on the buffet while the President was monopolised by Caroline and the other managers. Hayes didn't make it easy for them, frowning upon their bad English, inserting slang here and there just for the fun of it, and telling them that their siege being now in New York, he might have a word or two with the president of their company regarding the way people were treated in their branch. This sent Caroline into a fit that would plague her for months to come. To say that she hated Frances was the understatement of the year.

Amongst the well wishes of her friends, Frances managed to direct Jack to the front desk lady, an American who had managed to perform miracles on the buffet organisation with such a short notice. Before long, they were conversing so fast that most of their neighbours had given up on trying to understand them. Fishing, Oregon, Minnessota and trees popped up randomly in the conversation and Frances left them to their devices. It was nice to see O'Neill genuinely smile, and she wondered if he got enough time with Samantha in the midst of this stressful war.

In truth, this place wasn't filled with morons so much. It still held a lot of kind souls and intelligent people working for morons. Frances hugged and smiled so much that her cheek hurt. It didn't help that Kristan was making his first appearance, gaining a few looks of appraisals amongst the ladies. Still, he didn't leave Frances' side, and every time she introduced him as 'my man', the ghost of a smile lingered on his sensual lips. He had called her his 'woman' after all, and boyfriend didn't even cut it close. At last, Kristan nudged her arm, signalling that Henry Hayes was coming her way.

— "So, are you ready to test Air Force One?" the president asked. "I've had it stacked with French food."

Frances turned around, her jaw slightly slack. Of course, they had flown the plane over, else the world would have known that the President had a new means of transportation. The perspective of using it, though, was the opportunity of a lifetime. How cool was that? And she wasn't the only one to think so given the awed looks she received.

— "As ready as one can be. How was the inbound flight, by the way?"

His sunglasses discarded over his breast pocket, Henry's eyes twinkled merrily.

— "Incredible"

And no more was said on his first flight with the Odyssey. Still, the message was clear. It was time for Frances to give a final goodbye.

— "If you have prepared a speech, I encourage you to give it now. We'll depart in twenty minutes. I've got an important meeting tomorrow."

Frances nodded, shyness invading her mind. She had thought about it, then discarded the idea altogether. She was only twenty-six, not really fit for giving great discourses, especially since the last six months in this place had been a living hell. But then, a hot breath was on her neck and a steady hand landed on her back.

— "Sing it, Frances, if you don't want to say it."

And her heart fluttered, her eyes closing. Yes. This, she could do. And while all eyes turned to her, given that she was now flanked by both the President and General Jack O'Neill of the air force – when did it happen exactly? —Frances climbed on the little wall in front of the entrance.

— "Erm. Unlike some" and she sent a pointed look to the President "I am very bad at making speeches so… Thank you for those who had shown me kindness and support. As for the rest…"

As for the rest, may you get the swing back in your face, ah ! But she couldn't very much say it. So instead, she started singing the parting glass, this traditional Irish song that most people knew and conveyed her feelings quite nicely.

_"Oh all the money that e'er I spent__  
I spent it in good company  
And all the harm that e'er I've done  
Alas, it was to none but me."_

And after singing in front of Aragorn, the elves, Legolas and the knights of the round table, she thought it would come by easy. It didn't, and her throat closed for a moment, hot air rushing from her lungs. But Kristan's hands gripped hers, and he searched her gaze, and then nothing else mattered for the grey depths of his soul looked upon her with such love that she drowned in them.

Then her voice rose above her former colleagues' heads, and it intensified, her power fully deploying as she sang.

_"__And all I've done for want of wit  
To memory now I can't recall  
So fill to me the parting glass  
Good night and joy be with you all.__"_

And Frances raised her glass, hoping to thank all those who had shown kindness, and chastise those who had refused her that courtesy. Hoping that her voice would convey her love just as well as her anger as the song carried it.

_"__Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had  
Are sorry for my going away  
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had  
Would wish me one more day to stay  
But since it falls unto my lot  
That I should rise and you should not  
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call  
Good night and joy be with you all  
Good night and joy be with you all."_

And somehow, it seemed a fitting parting, devoid of useless words and promises to catch up. She knew she never would. But the song was full of sadness and joy alike, and despite the fact that nobody knew what Kristan and she were getting into, they all could share the heartfelt goodbye.

Frances sunk over the double bed with a mighty sigh, het feet dangling in the air. It was but 8 o'clock in Colorado Springs – 3 in the morning in France, but she was exhausted. Flying on Air Force One had certainly brought some awe and excitement, especially after having dodged the journalists at the airport. The plane was everything she had imagined, if not more. Luxury and safety rolled up in a huge Boeing 747. But despite the obvious thrill of flying the famous aeroplane, it wasn't the reason why Frances felt she might pass out before undressing. Her body felt so heavy on the mattress that it took all of her willpower to shift aside and lay properly.

The three hours and a half of meetings with the President had left her brain too mushy to do anything other than rest her head on Kristan's shoulder until Odyssey had beamed them out. Despite his friendly manners – for the stake of her ex-bosses – Henry Hayes had made clear that he expected their cooperation in return until the end of the war with the Ori. He had pulled off his President of United States persona, putting just the right amount of pressure to have them yield to his conditions. Henry Hayes had not retrieved them personally from south of France to let them go. A politician, after all. The fact that Jack O'Neill agreed – they were needed – added an extra layer of debt. Nor Kristan nor Frances felt entitled to say no; they both wanted Earth safe and would do anything to help the cause. Even if it might postpone their road trip by months. Or years. Or kill them eventually.

So back they were at the base, sharing a room, this time. Courtesy of Daniel, probably, or O'Neill who has seen enough of their proximity to know they were now a couple, and fortunately chosen to keep silent about it. Nothing escaped the former members of SG1 after all. Jack had gone straight to Sam's house, or so she thought. Not that she cared much; her brain was too fuzzy to embrace the full extend of today's changes. Saying goodbye in scorching heat in south of Frances, riding Air Force One, being beamed down in the SGC. Phew. Tomorrow – 8:00 – they'd meet with SG1 and try to find a solution to finding the Sangraal. Until then…

The bed shifted slightly and Frances opened one eye to spot Kristan, crouching beside her.

— "Tried, little fairy?"

That was the understatement of the year. The fact that she didn't even try to pop into Daniel's office spoke volumes of her exhaustion.

— "Dead on feet. How you still function is beyond me."

Kristan's eyes twinkled faintly in the artificial light.

— "The scout in me, perhaps. It's a lot to take in."

Frances grunted, reaching for his hand to get him to lay down. When he resisted, she huffed in frustration.

— "I'll shower before I turn in," he explained, dropping a kiss to her forehead.

An unfamiliar whine of protest escaped Frances as she pulled with more strength, effectively bringing Kristan closer.

— "Don't. Stay with me, be my pillow."

The knight humoured her for a moment, winding his arms around her to hug her snugly.

— "It's been a rather hot day for a man."

Although the coldness of being buried under tons of rocks stared to settle in his bones.

— "Yeah. For me too. Still, can't it wait until tomorrow morning?"

The heartfelt plea called a smile to his lips. When tired, Frances behaved like a very cute coddler; she could have been a cat. Still, the faint odour of sweat permeated through his shirt, reminding him unpleasantly how scorching the day had been before they boarded Air Force One.

— "Why?"

His silky voice tickled her ear and the young woman shivered slightly, her hand caressing his chest until it reached its resting place; his beating heart. Her palm sent waves of warmth through the fabric, and Kristan marvelled at the sensation, nearly forgetting he has asked a question in the first place.

— "Because I hate it when you smell like soap. Yours is much better."

Kristan's faint eyebrows shot up, his head turned aside to catch a glimpse of Frances.

— "Sweat and all?"

— "Especially all. You don't realise that sweat is not the dominant note of you, far from it. It is nowhere strong enough to cover the rest … and very localised"

An incredulous smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and Kristan bestowed a tiny kiss upon Frances' upturned nose.

— "You are probably the only woman in the world who is asking her man not to shower."

Frances chuckled, tightening her grip on her man playfully; a challenge for him to fight back and escape to the bathroom. Not a minute later, she was out like a light, fully clothed. Her breath fanned upon his shirt, her warmth seeping along his side, soft curves pressed against him. Suddenly, the shower didn't see so appealing… His long limbs relished in the mattress, slowly sinking in the plushness of sheets and covers. Kristan sighed and pulled one of the blankets awkwardly over them. He was asleep in less time than it took to whistle a lullaby.


	20. Chapter 20 - The last barbecue

**So, this one is a pure immersion into the Stargate world. Not for long, though, so I didn't have the heart to separate it from the rest. Honestly, I think I'm going to keep it all together, those redirections are tedious. For my very special Stargate fan reviewer (she will recognise herself), I hope they are in character.**

8:00. This was the time when, tomorrow, they would step through the gate and hope to find the SanGraal.

Thanks to Vala's dream of combining the addresses of Castiana, Sahal and Vagonbrei's addresses, they now had an idea of where the Graal might be. Still… Would it be the right place? And even if they had found the right planet, would they prevail and bypass every ordeal Merlin would cast their way? For she didn't expect the old sorcerer to make it easy. Last time, his wards had summoned Tristan and Lancelot in holographic form. What would be his game this time?

Frances mulled upon the latest meeting, her eyes lost over Samantha Carter's backyard while Jack and Mitchell tried to light up the barbecue. Chulak was overrun, the Oris submitting more and more planets to their rule. Without Myrrdin's weapon supposed to wipe out their enemies, fighting would be for naught. Earth was but a few weeks before the Oris sank their teeth in its lovely blue flesh to suck the joy and freedom out of it.

Upon Daniel and Vala's return from Atlantis with the coordinates, SG1 had visited the three planets, Castiana, Sahal and Vagonbrei, whose names were mentioned by Meurik in Camelot. Nothing of interest as found, except some tokens that the knights of the round table had been there at some point. To SG1, it wasn't much. But to Frances and Kristan, that news rocked their world upside down. How was this even possible? Where they speaking about the same people? Lancelot, Gawain, Galahad, Bors and Dagonet? The men from the fifth century? Had Merlin sent them on missions across the stars? How?

Frances snorted. She could only fathom what their reaction had been the first time they laid eyes upon a Stargate. Or a space ship. Especially Bors, aha!

This was weird.

A gentle hand on her shoulder called her back to reality, warm lips lingering on her temple as Kristan handed her a glass of wine.

— "Come back to us, little fairy. Worrying over it won't help."

Frances' frown dissolved into a smile, happy that despite the situation, her man would be by her side. In truth, she still had trouble believing that she had got Tristan back. His free hand reached for hers, intertwining their fingers to drag her across the lawn.

— "Come, we were about to play darts."

An eyebrow climbed neatly as they passed Samantha and Daniel gently chatting by the table. Vala and Teal'c were trying to fix a target to the back fence, where the wooden posts were high enough to prevent accidents from happening. It wouldn't do to save the world just to kill the neighbour's dog with a misplaced dart. Especially if Teal'c was the one to throw it.

Frances took a sip of her wine, her lips encountering something cold in the glass. She pulled back with a yelp and lifted the glass at eye level. Her chocolate eyes rounded in disbelief. An ice cube! There was an ice cube in her glass of white wine! Probably to fend off the heat, but damn, this was an insult to her burgundy roots. Kristan gave her an amused look but refrained from commenting on her distress. Oblivious to her French ethics, Vala's sultry voice rose.

— "I'd rather throw knives."

Samantha jumped to her feet, her blue eyes staring sternly at the dark-haired woman.

— "No, no, no, you're already making quite the fuss so no neighbour killing."

— "Who said anything about killing?" she responded with candour.

Despite Sam's exasperated features, Frances knew Vala had won this round. The new addition to SG1 wasn't a classic beauty per se, but she had plenty of charm and could disarm any offence with her mocked innocence. Somehow, she strangely fit in this renewed team, injecting new blood in the dynamic like Mitchell had done. Her presence also showed Frances that they didn't really need her anymore. They had found a new balance, the five of them. It gave her a measure of peace. As soon as this mess with the Ori was sorted, she and Kristan would take off and start a new life together.

For the moment though, the idea of knife throwing called the memory of a tavern contest to the forefront. Squeezing Kristan's hand, she met his gaze eagerly.

— "Do you still make that trick with your daggers?"

The former knight lifted a faint eyebrow, one that seemed to say 'what do you think?' Yet, he didn't have to answer as Vala suddenly prowled to him. Obviously, all the kissing and cuddling they had done in front of the team had not convinced her that Kristan was not for sale.

— "Oh, you're a knife thrower? How neat, you'd have to show me."

When her sultry voice failed to elicit any response from Kristan, she pointed to Frances with her chin.

— "Don't let her come close to daggers, she's a waste with a blade."

Her cooing – and her disparaging comment – gained her a harsh glare from Kristan, but Frances landed a soothing hand on his arm.

— "You'd be surprised; knives don't agree with me. I once ended up in the emergency room slicing at frozen fish. Three stitches to my poor thumb"

Kristan frowned, taken aback by this new information. As she shoved her appendage in front of his nose, the former knight gathered her thumb in his warm fingers and traced the scar that showed the remains of a neat slice across the first phalange. His prodding was gentle, such a sensual caress that she shuddered. And despite the fact that they had stumbled together in the long-needed shower early this morning – sharing much more than water – Frances's need of his closeness pooled low in her belly.

They had spent an hour leisurely, this very morning, because of the jet lag. Kirstan's hands buried in her hair until he decided to plait it properly – who better than the former scout to perform a tight braid? – she basking in his presence and ever warm skin. The calm before the storm; a nice time of revitalisation before they had to jump back into the fray.

— "How is it that you can master a blade so easily and not knives?" he asked.

Pulled from her fantasies, Frances was about to retort that there had been nothing easy in the training with her blade – damn, she had spent nearly ten years of her life learning fencing techniques with experts from many worlds! – but Teal'c eventually decided to voice his thoughts on the subject, his booming voice instantly quelling the argument.

— "I have not had the pleasure of seeing Frances fight with a sword. But she uses the staff with proficiency."

The young woman reddened at the giant's praise, hiding her blush with another sip of her wine. She loved Teal'c, but he was the only one in SG1 that still intimidated her. She'd never had the gall to tease him like O'Neill, let alone call him names. Teal'c was an unshakeable temple of poise and wisdom to her, and she felt honoured every time he took some time to spar with her.

— "Only because you taught me."

Kristan eyed the man with reverence.

— "Did you teach her those horrible moves that she likes to pull on me?"

— "Woo, you guys fight a lot… Sexy," purred Vala.

Frances sent her an incredulous look. She had trouble bonding with the dark-haired woman; Vala could switch from obnoxious bitch to a decent woman within a heartbeat, and it threw her off guard. No amount of beating would cause Frances to trust her, but as long as the others managed well … she knew neither Sam, neither Mitchell, neither even Teal'c bestowed their trust lightly. And she tried not to judge people over their kinkiness … everyone had history, and Vala seemed to have a difficult one. Still, she wasn't about to let her believe Kristan was a sadomasochist.

— "No, we don't. And those moves are from Interpol. Teal'c fighting style is very different, and just as efficient. Definitely nobler than self-defence,"

Kristan nodded at her words, studying the mountain of muscles that presently towered over him with his unwavering presence.

— "I would be glad to show you," said Teal'c, "if you are willing to share the techniques of knife throwing."

Trust the silent warrior to guess what was left unsaid. Kristan gave him the hint of a smile to convey his thanks.

— "My former self was an expert, from what I've been told. I do not expect to perform so well, but I can always try if we find the right tools"

Teal'c slightly bowed his head, inviting the former knight by his side. Samantha sighed, grumbling that they all behaved like children before retreating inside in search of all her kitchen knives. Seeing that the two warriors had found common ground, meaning weapons, technique and a tendency to be quiet, Frances retreated to Daniel's side.

And while they tried the balance of many of Sam's cooking utensils, Vala chatted their ears away. And despite the fact that she was mostly ignored, it didn't seem to deter her.

— "Is she always like that?" Frances discreetly asked to Daniel.

Sam addressed her a playful smile, her blue eyes twinkling in the fading light but it was Daniel who absently responded.

— "Oh yeah, you get used to it. I just tune her out"

Teal'c and Kristan seemed to do just that, exchanging a word here and there, and understanding themselves perfectly well. A silent and surrealistic conversation that Vala flooded with too many sentences to keep up. A tall shadow suddenly loomed over them and O'Neill's hand came to rest upon Sam's collarbone.

— "You know, she's worse than you are when you talk about ancient civilisations."

— "Hey!" Daniel protested.

Frances laughed this time, setting the glass of – bad – wine on the table. She had missed this, missed them. O'Neill's teasing of his younger friend. Daniel was so easy to rile up sometimes, it felt almost surrealistic that he had ascended to a higher plane of existence only to get back to a corporeal form. The bickering started this very instant, and Frances didn't even try to follow, simply relishing in the familiar voices bantering. Sometimes, Sam added her two cents, enjoying the fun just as much; instead of trying to appease them, her little quips only added fuel to the fire.

A thud called all eyes to the target where a very smug Vala had landed a knife a few inches from the centre. Not bad.

Behind Frances, the discussion went on and on, O'Neill accusing Daniel of discoursing about the whole genealogy of the Goa'uld whenever he asked 'how are you' and the archaeologist ranting about God knew what. All was well in the world.

Another thud, Kristan's knife landing on the other side, his lips pursing in disappointment.

The game was on then, with Teal'c partaking, and revealing himself rather gifted. Mitchell, of course, also had to try his hand and nicked the fence. He then retreated quickly to the barbecue to smother some flames. Smiling at the team's antics, Frances stood, abandoning her lousy glass of wine to approach Kristan. His face was set in concentration, his hands testing various knives as in a trance. Then, at last, his features brightened. Turning to her, gis grey eyes twinkled.

— "I found the right one," he whispered. "Watch, little fairy"

— "Always," she responded.

The honesty of her words – always – froze him for a second. A discreet smile bloomed at the corner of his mouth, so fleeting that it disappeared at once. The slight reddish hue gracing his cheeks, though, still lingered as his lips grazed her. The fragrance of his intoxicating scent surrounded Frances for a moment of sweetness before he returned to the target. Vala was bickering with a silent Teal'c whose eyebrow was lifted in a 'no nonsense' manner; it didn't deter her from moaning about who was closest to the target centre.

Frances smiled as Kristan closed his eyes, taking a step forward, his mid long hair slightly drifting about his cheekbones. Then, past and present overlapped as he flicked his wrist in a movement she'd witnessed once before, fifteen hundred years ago in a busy tavern. The knife left his hand in a practised move, its trajectory perfect … until it embedded itself in the handle of a large kitchen knife. Frances grinned, reaching for her man's hand to convey her admiration while silence settled in the backyard.

— "You did it," she whispered.

And Kristan's eyes twinkled with a mischievous light just before Vala nearly tackled him, dragging him to the target to berate it on the feat, absolutely green with envy. From where she stood, Frances could clearly hear 'beginner's luck' and other comments that made her bite her cheek in glee. A chuckle beside her told her Daniel shared her opinion on Vala's obnoxious comments. Sam, Jack and Cameron Mitchell had joined the commotion, asking for Kristan to perform again. The former knight silently obliged, retrieving the perfect knife from the other's tip and walking a few paces backwards.

— "Have a look," Frances whispered to Daniel.

The archaeologist nodded, blue eyes focused on the man as he flicked his wrist and send the knife flying. It pinned, once more, the other knife in the handle, earning some whoops from Mitchell and protests from Vala who uttered a few swears words in an unknown language. Such precision truly was extraordinary, and from what Frances told him with a smug look, Tristan used to rile his brothers in arms up with this trick. Watching her wide smile, the archaeologist's chest swelled with contentment. At last, his friend had found her other half, the man she deserved in her life, and he made her happy. Kristan was his Sha're, the woman he had loved and lost, and despite the pang of longing that echoed in his soul – his wife never made it back from the other side of the veil – he was glad for Frances to have reunited with hers.

Her brown, warm gaze rested on her man, pride and joy brightening her features. Needless to say, that after the trials of being the Keeper of Time, she really deserved it. The commotion of the knight's exploit seemed to die down, and Daniel was about to pull a chair for Frances when her features froze, smile dropping in a frightening expression.

— "Something's burning," she said.

The archaeologist turned to the barbecue where a bright flame was shooting to the sky. A series of yells and curses came from Cameron and Jack who rushed to the fire to smother it, nothing to worry about, really. Except for the odour of burnt sausage that now assaulted his nostrils. Frances' cry, though, was downright panicked.

— "Tristan! The village, they burnt it!"

Her eyes were glassy, unseeing, as if assaulted by images they couldn't see. When Daniel grabbed her arm, he realised she was shaking like a leaf. The young woman swatted his hand away violently, sniffing at the air as she backed off, her lips trembling. Kristan appeared by her side in an instant, the distance quickly covered by his long legs. As the tall man engulfed her forcefully, he gently spoke into her ear.

— "It's all right, little fairy. It's over, let the past rest in the past. It's all right, eh? Look at me."

His large hands came around her face, forcing her gaze to meet his. Moist shone upon her cheeks and the suspicious noise of a sob reached Daniel's ears. Tears?

The archaeologist frowned. Something was very, very wrong; Frances very seldom left her emotions crush her control, especially in stressful situations. She usually broke down later, in the privacy of her home or, very scarcely, in his arms. Sam appeared beside him, watching the scene with wide, worried eyes.

— "What happened?"

Daniel picked his glasses, wiping them in a nervous gesture in hopes to process what he'd just seen.

— "I'm not sure. One moment she was beaming with pride at her guy."

— "Yeah, he's got a mean trick with that knife."

— "Anyway. The next she told me something was burning and … it's a panic attack I think."

Samantha frowned.

— "A panic attack? Since when does she …?"

Daniel shrugged.

— "We all have our breaking point."

And to this statement, Sam could only nod, her own gaze veiled with untold terrors. All of SG1 had been through traumatic events, every single one of them. And they all knew that, no matter how strong one's mind was, it always came back to bite them in the ass. Except for Teal'c, maybe … perhaps the process of Kel'no'Reem grounded the mind, somehow.

Sam pursed her lips, walking up to the couple to suggest they get to the guest room for a moment. Kristan nodded, his arm thrown over a very flustered Frances.

Samantha Carter's guest room was a cosy place that clashed with the steely mind and frightful focus of her owner. Even if the former captain, now co-leader of SG1, was a military woman at heart, she didn't shy away from fluffy covers and flowery curtains. The sight called a smile to Frances' lips; she wondered how Jack O'Neill handled that much cosiness when he visited. Not that he would sleep in the guest room…

Soft lips caressed her temple as she sat at the bed's foot, Kristan's presence surrounding her with is much needed support.

— "What happened?" Samantha asked.

Kristan tensed, taken aback by what he interpreted as an invasion of privacy. In any other circumstance, Sam would have left them to sort this out. But tomorrow, they would join SG1 on a mission of the utmost importance. If Frances couldn't keep her cool, there was no way the Lieutenant-Colonel would allow her to pass the gate.

Frances lifted her chin, chasing away the shame of her breakdown in the backyard. For a moment, she'd been back in the fifth century, watching burnt bodies of slaughtered men, women and children, crying her distress against Tristan's back.

— "I feel so stupid now," she huffed.

Kristan straightened, giving her a little space to answer Sam's questions. Yet, his eyes didn't leave hers and his voice was low, almost haunted.

— "Don't, little fairy. I didn't live through this, but I also carry this memory."

Frances' eyes searched his, finding there the much-needed anchor.

— "You remember?"

— "Aye, I do. I also remember how Tristan wasn't as affected by it."

Sam watched the conversation, marvelling that they could understand each other with such little formal communication. She, on the other hand, didn't have half the information to make heads or tails of it.

— "Care to enlighten me?" she eventually said.

Frances nodded, recounting the moment when Tristan took her scouting and they stumbled upon this village, burnt to the ground by Saxons, every inhabitant gruesomely murdered. Her throat tightened, recalling the baby she had found, mouth wide open in a cry, pierced by a blade in his mother's arms. She couldn't dump such an image on Sam's lap, not without crying her eyes out. Squeezing her hand, Kristan took over the tale, piecing together his nightmares, Frances's writing and the flashes he sometimes had over his past life.

When she eventually felt confident enough to continue, Frances searched Samantha's gaze.

— "That burnt sausage. It smelt of burnt flesh, it triggered the memory."

The young woman nodded, thoughtful.

— "Have you considered that you might be suffering from PTSD?"

Frances scoffed this time, surprising the blonde woman with her heartfelt reply.

— "I know it is PTSD, Sam! I'm not that stupid to think I lived through those … events and escaped unscathed."

By her side, Kristan smirked. Trust his little fairy to remain lucid despite the hardships.

— "Come on, Sam! You know I can't talk to a shrink, they would commit me somewhere. Stargate related stuff, yes. But not my travels in the past. There would be too many questions to dance around"

Taken aback, Samantha Carter straightened on the bed, licking her lips as her lighting fast brain considered the question.

— "We … you can talk to us. Granted, it won't be the same as a professional but…"

A glance was all it took between Frances and Kristan to settle the subject between themselves. If she needed to unburden herself, her man was the greatest listener ever. Still, friendship didn't resolve deep, rooted traumatism and issues. At some point, she would have to plunge into the recesses of her mind and deal with past traumas of war, death and heartache. But not now. Reaching for Sam's hand over Kristan's lap, Frances tried to convey how grateful she was for her former team to stick with her and offer unconditional support.

— "I know. And I appreciate it. Know that it won't happen again."

— "There is no shame in stepping back if you feel the need to…"

— "No, I'll be fine. You know I wouldn't put any of you in danger. I have … slackened with so many friends around, but I can revert to mission mode faster than you can blink"

Sam gave her a contemplative look, her eyes shifting to the knight who sat protectively beside her. No one better than a soldier could understand how nerves were kept in check during a mission, sometimes for years even, before the soul found companionship and allowed to be unburdened. Kristan's presence had crumbled Frances' unmovable walls that protected her mind, bringing forth years of traumas that used to be kept in a tight leash. It had taken Jack O'Neill after her father's death for Sam to eventually give in… Yes, she knew how it felt to find someone who could share the responsibility, someone who could support the pressure while your own mind regenerated, just for a little while. The freedom of not being in charge anymore.

With a tight smile, Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter nodded.

— "I know. I also know you are way stronger than you look and that your mind is a fortress. Just … maybe it is time to open the gates."

— "She knows you well, little fairy," a smooth voice intervened.

Frances gave her man an amused look.

— "Yeah, definitely. I'll get plenty of time to do that once this is over."

Sam slapped her hand on her lower thigh, standing up cheerfully. Her blue eyes danced mischievously in the receding light.

— "Great! It's a date then"

— "Eew, weird"

The blonde woman laughed at the very stunned expression of her friend, Frances' eyes narrowing playfully until she gave in.

— "Ok, ok. Let's get back. I want some unburnt sausages."

— "No bets on that…" muttered Sam as she left the room.

Frances stood, amused by the commanding officer's antics, albeit she had trouble shading her shame aside. Her little breakdown could have killed someone in the field, and she cursed her weakness. The emotion probably showed on her face as she stood because Kristan remained seated, catching her wrist to pull her in the circle of his arms. For a while, he said nothing, opening his legs to pull her close and resting his head upon her breasts, providing warmth, support and reassurance in this single gesture. Frances melted against him, her arms circling his broad shoulders, fingers buried into the silk of his hair as she sniffed his scent. The pulsating heat of his body against hers caused her pulse to quicken, and Frances lowered herself to straddle him, burying her nose into his neck. There, she could remain forever, every inch of her body touching his, his scent surrounding her like a benevolent presence. Strong hands slid from her back to her waist, urging her a little closer until he caught her in a kiss. The taste of him melted down remorse and shame alike, replacing it with the fireworks running wildly into her veins as she made love to his tongue. Frances pressed against him as his fingers cupped her hips.

— "Little fairy," he ground out. "If we don't get out now, we never will."

His grey eyes burnt with such fire that Frances gasped. Pulling away was a challenge like no other; her body screamed for his presence, for skin against skin and the sweet taste of him in her mouth. She rearranged her hair and pursed her swollen lips. No! She wasn't about to do that in Sam's house. No, no, no!

— "Thank you, I feel better now."

The corner of his mouth lifted in his trademark smirk.

— "Anytime, my fair lady"

A genuine smile bloomed on her lips and Kristan felt a wave of satisfaction for his efficiency. His long fingers came to rest on the small of her back by themselves and Kristan noted, as they emerged in the backyard, when he had got so used to touching her that he didn't even think about it. Vala's shouted command welcomed them as they took a seat between Jack O'Neill and Colonel Mitchell.

— "Muscles! Pass on the ketchup!"

The giant warrior looked about for a moment before providing the plastic bottle to his colleague with an impassive look. Beside her, Mitchell's feature fell.

— "Oh no, there she goes again…"

— "Oh, hey! My favourite food in the universe!"

Cameron Mitchell addressed Frances an 'I told you so' look that only heightened Kristan's confusion. Keeping an eye at the dark-haired woman, he grabbed a plate for his lady and piled up two kinds of sausages before setting to work on his own. A kiss on his cheek was his reward as Frances fished for some salad – her absolute weakness – and onion rings. Beside them, Samantha Carter, Daniel Jackson and Jack O'Neill were discussing the maniability of the MP-7 compared to the P-90. Frances very soon interjected,

— "They're much less heavy, that makes a different for a hundred pounds me!"

Kristan snuck the first piece of sausage into his mouth, mulling over the 'normal day in the military office' mood. On the other side, Mitchell and Teal'c seemed to be discussing a football team, the words 'mightiest players' and 'most powerful tactic' better suited to war than to a game. Cameron's slang and accent grew more pronounced as he fought tooth and nail for his favourite team, deterred by hums and affirmations from the quiet warrior who didn't concede and inch of terrain. Smiling inwardly at the camaraderie between them, warmed by the presence of his little fairy by his side, Kristan gradually relaxed. Until his eye caught Vala's plate.

Sausages were literally drowned in ketchup, and she was now in the process of spreading some more onto pieces of sandwich bread, oblivious to the rest of the world. The former knight's eyebrows shot up; this was an addiction like he'd never seen. And when she pushed her head back and moulded her lips against the bottle's neck, he couldn't contain his incredulous chuckle.

— "Vala !"

Cameron's exclamation, echoed around the table, came with a slap. The bottle of ketchup stumbled out of the woman's grasp and splashed on the paper napkins. A pissed 'hey' later, the last SG1 member had tackled Cameron Mitchell out of his chair and pinned him to the ground. He had barely seen her move; her holds seemed as efficient as Frances'. Eyes wide, Kristan awaited for the scuffle to degenerate. Surprisingly, Mitchell didn't try to untangle his limbs from his colleague, choosing instead to glare at her.

— "Remember what my mum said! This is not acceptable table manners, Vala!"

Chastised, the dark-haired woman uncoiled her body from Colonel Mitchell and stood with a derisive sniff.

— "It's not my fault that your earth food is so addictive."

The mention of earth called Samantha's attention who interjected with a hiss.

— "Vala, neighbours!"

The dark-haired woman, still standing, turned around with unconcealed grace. Realisation dawned upon Kristan's mind; she was a fighter. And a good one. Of course, else SG1 would never have accepted her within their ranks. And despite the unusual chain of command – he couldn't see Vala obeying orders much – the team seemed to make it work. According to Frances, SG1 had never been much about the hierarchy since Daniel almost always managed to sway his CO's mind, and Jack always took his team's opinion into account before acting. The strength of SG1; multiple points of view that worked towards the same goal.

— "Hey, I'm an…"

— "Aha!" Jack cried, interrupting her rant like a flight in mid-air.

Vala opened eyes bigger than flying saucers until Daniel provided her with a way out.

— "Foreigner."

— "Yes, foreigners. I never had ketchup before, and I love it more than anything in the world."

The archaeologist rolled his eyes at the exaggeration, a smile on his lips.

— "Don't tell me you wouldn't kill for coffee, Daniel."

— "Too true," muttered Frances in Kristan's ear.

The knight slid his hand over her shoulders, pulling her close as he kissed the corner of her mouth. Apparently, Daniel's addiction to coffee was worse than Frances' to chocolate. And since Vala's quip send the team into reminiscences of their favourite food, all was once more well in the world … until it ended, very, very soon.


	21. Chapter 21 - Back to the future

**_So, I think lots of you have been awaiting this moment. This specific part of the story is probably going to take a few chapters, 6 being the minimum. Unfortunately, I'm going to be very busy editing my first French novel since it is supposed to be published this year so I might be a little late in updates. All in all, it is great news for me!_**

**_Hey Koba, thanks for approving. The ketchup addiction was my husband's idea. He's a black box of ideas: p I didn't know you had studied archaeology; I have a friend who used to roam the world to dig with a toothbrush as well. Sadly, he is stuck in Yemen at the moment. A prayer for him!_**

Frances was still slumbering when unusual light filtered behind her eyelids. In any ordinary setting, being awakened by the sun would have meant that morning was upon them. But here, deep down in the 21st level of the base, there was no reason whatsoever for any kind of light to replace her alarm clock … unless it was an emergency.

Kristan was awake in less time than it took to blink, pointing to the necklace that rested on the bed stand. Its bluish waves were growing in intensity, plunging the darkened room into an ocean of aquatic tendrils.

Frances gasped, her eyes squinting against the assaulting brightness as her brain ran a thousand miles a minute.

— "Little fairy, is that what I think it is?"

She had been so ready to step through the gate to hunt the SanGraal that it never occurred to her that the next travel would snatch her right beforehand. Nodding to Kristan, she took a moment to contemplate his stunned expression. The light waves painted him against the shadow of the room, his bare chest illuminated by thousands of blue lines, his cheekbones even more prominent. His usually impassive gaze seemed entranced by the necklace, his memory recalling the day she had appeared right under his eyes … well, Tristan's eyes.

— "What should we do?" he eventually asked, his voice slightly hesitant.

Frances shook out of her contemplation.

— "Heed its call. Prepare ourselves"

And with a quick kiss to Kristan's exposed shoulder – how she longed to linger in his warm embrace! – the young woman jumped out of bed to retrieve the usual mission bag.

— "But the Sangraal … we're supposed to depart in two hours."

Frances paused, her tongue darting between her lips as she exited her mental list of indispensables – antibiotics, gauze, disinfectants. Had she forgotten to mention the rules of travels through the Valar's device? Sliding a look to Kristan who was sitting on the bed, looking a little lost, she nodded slowly.

— "We'll be back at the same moment we disappear, more or less. It doesn't matter"

— "What if we get killed?"

The comment was akin to a slap in the face. Eyes wide, she breathed out slowly to get rid of the tension that crept up her spine. Always level-headed, Kristan had, once more, found the right questions to ask. Dropping her bag, she knelt beside him, resting her cheek upon his upper thigh, eyebrows scrunched together. How much control had the Valar on the device? They'd never lead her astray, but what if Kristan was right and they never made it back?

Would SG1 manage on their own? As Kristan's hand landed on her neck, massaging the stress away, a surge of hope suddenly washed over her. Yes. SG1 had seen such odds, and most of the time without her. They would manage; they could do anything, especially with Daniel being such … a weird character now. Lifting her face to Kristan's troubled gaze, another idea popped into her mind.

— "What if it gives us the key to our research?"

Silence greeted her words. Neither disapproving nor enthusiastic, for he couldn't afford to delve into the implications of her idea.

— "Maybe you should stay there…", she ventured.

Fire flared behind his grey irises, his fingers suddenly tightening in her hair as he growled.

— "I dare you to finish that sentence elskede."

Eyes wide, Frances's breath caught in her throat when he descended upon her like an angel of wrath, capturing her lips in a dizzying kiss.

— "Never apart, remember?"

Frances could only nod, words stuck behind her swollen lips.

The sweet smell of coffee filled his nostrils as he lifted his third mug to his lips. Barely an hour and a half before SG1 passed the gate, and the quest for the grail started. No pressure. The frantic archaeologist couldn't help but take notes, assembling papers in fear of forgetting a piece of information that could save any of his teammates, or the quest.

A gentle knock at the door distracted him from the much needed caffeinated beverage and Daniel lifted his eyes to the door … eyebrows scrunching in confusion.

— "OK, uh, are you supposed to wear that?"

Frances and Kristan stood by the door, clad in leather armour and medieval garb, swords at the ready, bow across their backs, a long cloak attached at their necks. No bulletproof vest, no BDU and nothing remotely military standard.

Frances addressed him a contrite smile, as if ill at ease.

— "Er. We came to drop a word on your desk, you know, since mobile phones don't work down here. We…"

— "Didn't expect to find you here so early," finished Kristan.

The archaeologist stood, suddenly suspicious. All right, it was 6:30 in the morning, but he really wanted to be ready for this mission. Them, on the other hand… Burying his hands into the pockets of his battle pants – which was what they were supposed to wear – Daniel eyed them warily.

— "So what was this word about?"

Frances steeled her spine, the movement familiar to him.

— "The Valar are calling. If we don't make it, you'll know where we ended… Well, sort of"

Wide blue eyes filled with excitation, then ire replaced it with a fire he rarely displayed.

— "You're travelling? Now? NOW?"

— "We'll be back less than a minute after we are gone, Daniel. Unless we don't get back at all. Plenty of time before the mission."

Huffing, the archaeologist leaned his hips on his desk, arms crossed defensively. Of all times, they chose to get into a perilous situation right now!

— "Where are you going? Back to King Arthur?"

Frances bit her lip; she knew how treacherous those travels could be.

— "I have no way of knowing. But if it is, indeed, the case, maybe I can get some info from Merlin."

Daniel froze for a second, just the necessary time for his brain to wrap his mind around all implications and jump on his feet.

— "OK, let me join you."

— "No!"

Frances' cry stopped the archaeologist dead in his tracks; he gave her an inquisitive look. The young woman seemed to deflate, drawing strength from the man that stood by her side like a silent watcher.

— "Daniel, I don't want to throw you into that mess as well. You have no training with a blade, you can end up in a full-scale battle. No, it is bad enough that Kristan won't leave my side, I don't want to put you in more danger than you are already."

— "As if it could be worse than that quest with Adria and the Ori at our tail."

The look she addressed him broke his heart. There was so much sadness oozing out of those chocolate pools that her angst hit him like a freight train. All right, perhaps he had underestimated how gruesome medieval battles could be. She had reached for Kristan's hand, and the tall knight stepped forward providing silent support but leaving the decision to her. She was the Keeper of Time; he deferred to her opinion. Daniel couldn't help but envy their easy relationship, how attuned they were to each other's feelings. Would he ever find someone like this again?

In the end, Frances took a deep breath before her features changed to the mask he'd come to know well.

— "Daniel. If something happens to you there and we don't make it back, earth is doomed."

— "Bah. I died eight times, remember? I can always ascend."

This time, Frances rolled her eyes.

— "Cats have nine lives. The next one is final, Daniel."

Her man didn't seem so surprised, she'd probably filled him in about his dying habits. Truth be told, he knew he was being unreasonable, putting himself at risk now. But if there was a little chance that he might talk to Myrrdin, he was bound to take it. What if he could discover the place where the grail was held, and the way to get it without being fried to a crisp by a dragon or whatever other traps? Not that he didn't trust Frances, but he still was the most knowledgeable archaeologist and King Arthur expert of the lot.

The young woman seemed to mull over the idea, and it was somehow unsettling that, for once, she would be the one to decide rather than him. The apprentice becoming the master, in a way. It was a first; to meet Frances as the Keeper of Time. And when at last she spoke, her words caused him to think, hard.

— "You could be shot by an arrow, fall from a cliff, killed within a second. And we don't know where we are going. It could be a parallel dimension with nothing to do with King Arthur, Daniel. I've never been twice in the same place … unless by mistake."

— "But you believe it can happen, right? Else you wouldn't be going. I'll take my chances"

The young woman sighed.

— "Jack is going to kill me."

Daniel smiled; he knew he had won. The young woman glare at him before she starting listing the material he would need.

— "All right, so we don't know what's the season. Take your bulletproof vest and keep it hidden, and…"

Many, many instructions later, a few run-ins in the cafeteria to gather supplies, a change of clothes and a trip to his own supplied of pharmacy, Daniel was ready to meet the past. Or so he hoped. The three of them closed his office door and stood solemnly by his desk. His clock read 7:33 am.

Frances pulled at the chain that hung over her neck, exposing the gem that sent ripples of blue waves across their faces. The tendril's dance was fascinating, and Daniel's heart peaked in excitation, his blood rushing through his veins; he was about to complete his first travel through space and time without a Stargate! The archaeologist superimposed his hand over that of Kristan who had done the same with Frances. The young woman exhaled once, then closed her fingers around the gem.

— "OK, there we go," she whispered.

A blinding blue light spread from the gem to the whole room, causing Daniel to close his eyes. A thousand ants seemed to crawl upon his skin, vibrations reverberated in his bones as the magic of the necklace filled him whole. For a moment, Daniel wondered if he was still standing, the weightless sensation throwing him off guard. Then it all settled down, and he opened his eyes cautiously. He was standing in his office. Alone.

Damn it!

When Kristan and Frances appeared in a very nondescript forest, her first thought was to look for Daniel. Kristan, for his part, seemed a little stunned by the unusual sensations.

— "Where the hell is that archaeologist!" Frances hissed.

The former knight's gaze roamed the forest, looking for any sign that another might have crossed the blue portal with them. It felt weird, to be the one appearing like this when he clearly remembered Tristan's puzzled thoughts the day he had seen Frances materialise in a flash of blue light.

— "Perhaps he didn't cross at all."

Puzzled, Frances took a second to calm down before her mind started running at full speed. Kristan noticed the moment her quick mind had found something inconsistent, for her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

— "Why did it work for you, then?"

Her relief was hidden behind worry over her friend, yet it clearly shone in her warm irises. Despite her protest, Frances was glad to have him by her side. How she'd done this on her own so many times before puzzled him. There was nothing he detested more than the unknown. For the moment, though, finding out what happened to Daniel Jackson was a priority.

— "I don't know. I was in direct contact with you…"

— "So was he, I held his other hand"

Kristan's tongue passer over his lips in a nervous gesture as he discarded the explanation.

— "Is it possible that Daniel was misplaced along the way?"

The young woman huffed, pacing over the leaves littered ground as she threw her hands in the air.

— "How would I know? I've never crossed with someone before! And I don't know if I ever landed in another place that was the plan since…"

Then she lifted her eyes to the sky and raised her voice.

— "SINCE I AM NOT PRIVY TO THE PLAN."

The noise caused Kristan to wince. His scout's ways kicking in, he strode to the young woman and pulled her into his arms. The effect was immediate as she deflated against him.

— "Shh, little fairy. We don't know who lurks around. Enemies or friends, right?"

— "Right, sorry," came her muffled voice from his chest. "I'm just worried for Daniel, he's always getting in trouble."

— "From what you have told me, he tends to survive."

An unladylike snort escaped Frances, his smooth voice failing to appease her fears.

— "Tends to, yes. Because we move our asses to save his. This is the reason why. Else he dies, another habit of his."

Kristan lifted a hand to caress the side of her cheek, his eyes observing the surroundings intensely.

— "It is no use worrying over this. Come, elsekde, we need to find out where we are."

And so the couple started walking, covering quite a distance before they found a stream to mark a pause. The forest covered many miles, and they had no way of knowing if they walked in the right direction to emerge since the trees that could be climbed didn't reach the top – of course Frances had tried. How glad she was for Kristan's presence, a silent shadow by her side, trying to read the ground and make sense of the geography with her. Travelling with a companion was new to her, but it reduced the burden incredibly well.

The sun was still high in the sky, the weather not as harsh as expected. Spring, from the vibrant colours that greeted them. Fresh green leaves not entirely formed, violets growing in the shadows, primroses scattered over the clearings and plenty of buds not yet hatched. In the silent, deserted forest where only a few animals seemed to graze, the scenery would have been ideal for a romantic moment. There were no enemies in sight, no threats to be seen … yet. Kristan and Frances progressed silently, only speaking when they found a place, in higher ground, to swallow bread and tasteless cheese from the SGC's mess. Bow and arrows at their feet, they both relished in the peaceful environment. Still … they could be anywhere in the world, in any universe, at any time, and in any parallel dimension. Not a clue in sight to determine the date and time.

Until the sound of hooves echoed in the distance, bringing the answer to their questions. At once, both Kristan and Frances jumped on their feet, bow at the ready. As the clip clop approached, they backed away from the stream. Kristan pointed a large trunk with his chin.

— "Hide behind that tree"

Frances nodded. Even if she was the Keeper of Time, Kristan had more 'past' experience with ambushes in the middle of the forest. As she concealed herself behind a tree, the young woman searched for her man. Only the tip of his arrow poked out from another trunk. Frances stuck her back to her own hideout, trying to rein the harsh beatings of her heart in her chest. According to her past experiences, the first people she met when on a mission were usually the ones she was supposed to help. But there were no rules to time and space travel, so she wasn't about to jeopardise her life on a whim. Whomever emerged – the hooves were definitely coming that way – could be a threat. And now that Kristan was there, she wouldn't take any chances.

A gentle neigh echoed in the forest, as if coaxing them to come out of their hiding. But despite the sound of hooves shuffling the grass around, no voices could be heard. Slowly, Frances turned around, risking a glance at the stream area. Her eyes widened, puzzled, at the sight of a tall warhorse. Dark mane falling upon its back, a robe of grey and white that could have been drawn by a graphic designer such was the pattern and great dark eyes darting about nervously. Frances gasped. This horse…

Her eyes caught a movement uphill and she turned abruptly. Kristan stood in the open, face blank, his eyes drawn upon the magnificent beast. The animal spotted him and nervously approached until both mount and knight faced each other, frozen under the dancing light that filtered through the branches. Sensing no threat around, Frances approached Kristan and the beast cautiously, her bow still clutched. The knight turned his head; his eyes shone with an incredible gleam, as if tears struggled not to pour over his face.

— "I don't remember her name," he whispered.

Frances nodded. Neither did she.

— "You never told me."

Kristan's lips quirked up, his expression incredulous as he lifted a hand to greet the animal. His mare, his faithful companion that had led him from Sarmatia to Briton and seen his death on the battlefield was there, greeting him like an old friend. Stroking its coat, his smooth voice speaking in soothing tones, Kristan ran his hand alongside the giant warhorse's belly. There he found the scar from Badon's Hill battle; the spear that had pierced her side and caused her to throw them off.

— "Well, at least it confirms where we are now."

Frances' voice, so close, told him he had tuned the rest of the world for a moment of reminiscence. Of reacquaintance. Dropping a kiss to the muzzle's side, Kristan looked at his horse with a fond smile.

— "Will you take us, home?" he asked.

The mare neighed and they both picked up their stuff to follow the animal out of the forest and God knew where to. His mare was an old animal now; its teeth were more prominent, its gait less graceful than it used to be. Many years had probably passed since the battle of Badon Hill. Still, the animal was saddled lightly, which meant someone was taking care of her. Someone who failed at showing themselves. Frances remained silent by his side as they walked and he was grateful for her consideration.

Being in Briton, finding the horse of his past self brought such turmoil upon his soul. He had abandoned the idea of ever meeting his brothers again, and now that the possibility seemed at hand, he wondered how things would turn out. He wasn't the same man as Tristan was; his Sarmatian language forgotten, his old ways just as well. The knights would find him changed. Or worse, they might reject him for fear of sorcery. Tristan was dead and buried after all. As for him, he didn't really know who he was anymore, or who he wanted to be. A knight of old, or a modern man?

They walked for a long while, a few hours at least, his hand in contact with the animal's flank. Its smell, its warmth, its softness below his fingers were reassuring, reminding of a past life he thought he would have rather forgotten. But the solace that washed through his veins at the simple presence of his mare told him otherwise. No, Tristan wasn't dead; he never really died. And if he was, now, a modern man, the past knight lived inside his soul for better or worse. Better to accept him than to reject his old, twisted heart. If he couldn't accept himself, how could he expect his brothers to welcome him?

And what about his brother and sister, those that has seen him raised in Denmark? Were they less important than his Sarmatian brothers in arms? His mother, than had borne him, nursed him, loved him, raised him in the 21st century? How did she fit in that scheme? Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Kristan's eyes found Frances. She snatched his hand, bestowing a simple kiss upon his knuckles to provide support. If coming back here was an ordeal for her, she could imagine easily how difficult it would be, for him, to make sense of it all. The former knight addressed her a lopsided smile. As long as she was there, his little fairy, his elskede … the Keeper of Time … they would manage.

When they emerged from the forest, the sun was plunging to the horizon. Rolling hills greeted them, much gentler than the landscapes of northern Briton. Green grass, a few fields and large trees adorned the slopes, contrasting with the sky blues, pink and fluffy white clouds. And to the right, maybe ten kilometres away, stood a pointed butte with defensive walls and a large city nested inside. A tall, wide castle dominated it, flags of white and red flowing in the breeze, the dark rocks tainted with orange hues. It was magnificent, standing out against the darkening sky like a beacon of light; a symbol of strength. From there, Kristan couldn't hope to distinguish the blazon; he would know soon enough. Frances's sharp intake of breath told him she recognised the place. Face white, the young woman met his eyes.

— "Camelot"

Kristan frowned, recalling a huge castle with rounded turrets.

— "But we've already been to Camelot."

Frances shook her head.

— "Earth Camelot. We are in Glastonbury"


	22. Chapter 22 - Heartfelt reunion

_**Hey ! so it's been a little eternity, and I should really be working on something else but Frances was begging at my door to write this. (like an annoying mewling cat). So there it is :)**_

Galahad wondered what he should expect. Arthur had sent him away, half drunk, basking in anger. Inconsolable, yet proud enough to dismiss him. He that had become his closest friend. He who shared his love for God, the Christian deity who bound them in a benevolent faith when all his brothers had remained pagans. His King had been in a sorry state indeed, but there was nothing more he could do than prevent anyone from interrupting Arthur's misery, hence hiding from the world that the King was, indeed, less than capable of holding his kingdom together. He, too, felt strongly betrayed by Lancelot's flight with Guinevere. Old rancour resurfaced, he trying very hard not to curse the Woad Queen for the dire wound she had dealt to his closest friend and King. For hours, Galahad had wracked his brain and prayed for a solution, knowing that if he found none, Arthur's anger could plunge the kingdom in peril. There was only so much a man could take before crumbling down.

As his boots silently trod the granite stones of the secret passageways, Galahad's lips quirked up. The scout would have been proud of him for his stealth. His smile turned sad. The scout; Tristan, his brother in arms, dead so that they could live on that fated day. He'd taken good care of Aylin – his warhorse – saving her from the gruesome wound, exercising her, coaxing her out of her depression after Tristan's fall. One last tribute to the scout who'd called his ire more often than not. How he regretted his harsh words! Taking care of Tristan's precious warhorse had been a way to give homage, to assuage his guilt over his death, and the way he had treated him during their fifteen long years of service. Galahad's uneasiness came back and he rubbed his sore bottom. This very morning, Aylin had bolted and thrown him off, disappearing into the forest as he yelled at this mule of a horse. As stubborn and unpredictable as its former master. Sighing, the knight paused. Perhaps it was time to release Tristan's spirit hand over his memory to God. May Aylin find her peace in the wilds, and solace in the quiet of the forest. Just like Tristan used to do.

Galahad released a heavy breath, a weight he had carried for ten years leaving his chest. Now was time to handle Arthur's crisis. He had prayed to God for wisdom in counsel, for ideas to put this mess to rest, for purity of heart and sanity of mind. What he was about to discover, though, was beyond his imagination. Way, way beyond. The proof of the almightiness of the Lord, and the limitations of the petty human mind, his included. So when Galahad passed the doors of the King's private chambers, the sight that greeted him froze him entirely. For there, right beside Arthur, stood no other than Frances, who had left ten years prior at the King's wedding to never return. Hair unbound like a waterfall of fire, shining eyes, rosy lips and a tiny chin. She had barely changed when both he and Arthur had aged. A woman out of time…

And if his younger self might have latched himself to her in a mighty hug, demanding answers for her long disappearance, for her abandonment when they had such a dire need of her, Galahad only exhaled slowly, wondering if he had gone crazy. His eyes travelled to the side before he acted rashly, giving him some much-needed time to process the information. The man standing beside Frances was somehow familiar; the proud posture, the ability to blend in the surroundings, the threat looming in a set of brownish-grey eyes, the coiled muscles hiding below his tunic… There was no beard, nor braid in his light hair. Still… Memories of times past flooded him, memories of evenings in the tavern, in summer, where their scout sometimes shed his heavy leather jacket. Rarely would his eyes be seen behind the disarray fringe, but they always could feel his heavy gaze upon them. A punch in the gut would have been less brutal, and all air fled Galahad's lungs as he recognised the familiar eyes. The same man, but different at the same time.

— "Tristan," he breathed. "How can it be?"

His former brother, his very dead former brother, long burnt and buried under a mount in the sad cemetery of the Wall, regarded him with wonder.

— "Galahad," was the smooth response, his voice unmistakable.

Then his lips quirked up, and very soon, a full dazzling smile bloomed upon his features, rendering him unrecognisable. Never, in the fifteen years he had known him, had Galahad seen such merriment upon Tristan's face. For he was quite sure now that it wasn't a hallucination. Mayhap the man standing before him was a brother, a cousin from the same tribe? Nay. No one had ever floored him with such an intense, penetrating look. No one before Badon Hill, and no one ever since. Exhilaration and unease washed over him as he took a step forward, feeling Arthur's green eyes and Frances' gaze firmly set upon them both. Then, Tristan did something even more extraordinary. The scout opened his arms, and stepped forward to engulf him in a bear hug. The air rushed out of his lungs as he stood, helpless, in the embrace of his brother for the first time in his life. Then his arms remembered how to function, and he tightened the hold upon his missing friend, choking on his words.

— "How … how?"

Nothing consistent could pass his lips, and it was Arthur who answered his plea.

— "God has worked one of his miracles again, Galahad. I prayed, and once more, Frances appeared out of nowhere, bringing Tristan in tow"

Regaining a little brain function, Galahad stepped back, watching Tristan instantly. His skin was pale, the consequences of death still lingering in his mind. He had helped Lancelot wrap him in the shroud, handed the torch to Arthur for him to burn his body into the ground. This … bordered on sorcery.

— "You were dead," he said.

— "I was. For fifteen hundred years, I remained so. Then God sent an angel, and I was reborn to fight alongside Frances."

Never has Tristan spoken so much in a row. Galahad's wary gaze turned to the young woman. She smiled at him, but didn't dare take a step closer, awaiting for him to process the information.

— "Fifteen hundred years…"

— "Aye"

The knight's blue eyes travelled over his body, assessing, prodding, comparing in a manner that spoke of keen observance. Frances couldn't help but stare in awe at the man standing before her. His face, still youthful, displayed laugh lines now. But most of all, her exuded calm and confidence, his temper reined, his analytical mind fully deployed. It was astonishing, how far he had gone from the pup; Tristan would have been proud of him.

— "This is why you are different," Galahad told his fellow knight.

There was so much awe displayed on Kristan's face that Frances nearly shed a tear. At last, her beloved fulfilled his dream and got to meet his brothers of old! He only nodded, a smile lingering on his lips.

— "Aye. You will find me changed, for the better I hope."

Galahad's eyes widened once more, his head cocked aside.

— "This is … bewildering, to say the least."

But then, his dark brows furrowed and he turned to her.

— "And you. I should yell at you for leaving us… I never thought I would see you again. But I am so glad you are here!"

And then, all pretence was shed as he closed the distance, and engulfed Frances in a bone crushing hug. One of his hands came to rest upon her head, and he whispered into her ear.

— "I'm so happy to see you, sister."

Tears welled in her eyes, for of all the knights, it was Galahad she had missed the most. Tristan aside, of course.

— "Likewise, Brother," she answered.

And all was well in the world again. Except that Lancelot and Guinevere were missing, and Arthur on the brink of self-destruction. But with his friends reunited, Galahad could see the light once more. Together, they might very well find a solution to this mess, and save the kingdom that had required so many sacrifices, so much sweat, so much work to pull together.

Frances smiled, watching those brothers in arms she had lost and loved, watching as the spark of recognition rekindled, and warmth permeated where there used to be despise and contempt. If Galahad could accept Tristan's new self, given their difficult history, there was hope still.

Arthur, for one, had reacted with more emotion than she'd ever seen him display. A side effect from being drunk, probably. How far that man had gone, from the proud Roman commander to this wretched soul. It hurt to witness such demise. Hurt to remember the man who'd stood proudly atop his horse, facing the horde of Saxons on Badon Hill with a sword in his hands and steel in his eyes. She had been in awe, then, sitting behind Tristan on the saddle, watching as Arthur gave a rising speech to his fellow brothers. To them all.

Frances shook the image from her head, reminding her and Kristan's earlier trek as they reached the royal stables, led by Aylin. An unknown place, with lots of stalls and a different architecture than the old Roman one at the fort. There, a boy had called for a familiar name that caused them to share a fond smile.

"Master Jols! Strangers have brought back Aylin"

Master Jols! The limping man had recognised her instantly – bless his soul for surviving his wound – and brought the two of them to Arthur's private chambers. His suspicious looks addressed to Kristan – he'd kept his hood on – made her wonder if he had gathered who he was. But the lighter-coloured hair plus the lack of tattoos and braids might have been enough to make him doubt, even if they'd returned Aylin to the stables.

— "The lady Frances to see you, Arthur," Jols announced after pushing the door.

_Arthur. Not majesty, nor my King, nor any entitled nonsense. __Frances smiled; trust Arthur to keep close people who would call him on his bullshit and treat him like an equal. A smart move, for courtesans never counselled wisely. His knights and Jols were the prefect counterbalance to power. The stable master had made no qualms telling her how wasted Arthur was at the moment._

_Something clattered on the floor – a stool? – as a tall shape staggered to a standing position that slightly wavered. Hidden in the shadow, the young woman could barely distinguish a dark beard upon the face of the former Roman officer. His eyes, squinted, didn't show the usually piercing gaze she remembered. Jols addressed Frances a smile, then closed the door behind them. She, and a stranger, led directly into the King's chamber while he was unable to defend himself – drunk, Jols said. Either security was really crappy, either the stable master trusted her more than she thought … either he'd recognised Tristan._

— "Lady Frances?"

_The young woman froze, hearing her name pronounced by this familiar voice. Sharing a look with Kristan, she approached Arthur cautiously. The scent of alcohol was so strong that it churned her stomach, but her heart raced so wild to see him again. Ugh! Drunk Arthur, who knew she'd have to witness this oddity someday. He'd always been so strong, so responsible, never partaking in the binges of his fellow knights. Holding her hands out, Frances searched in gaze. His green eyes slightly widened when the light of the flames caught her reddish hair. Recognition dawned in his hazy brain, and the shock seemed to have the effect of a bucket of fresh water._

— "I am not dreaming, right?" he whispered, taking a step towards her.

_Frances smiled again, more confidently this time._

— "No, you're not. How long has it been?"

— "Eleven years this spring."

_Arthur's hand lifted, his fingers trembling, wary to touch her. __Kristan had not moved behind her, a smart decision for the shock seemed great on the King already. __But she could feel him, just in arm's reach; her guardian. At last, Arthur's hand settled on her shoulder and he staggered, as if out of breath._

— "I prayed, again. And you came."

And then, Arthur dissolved into tears, hiding his face in shame as he started rambling about Lancelot, and Guinevere, and Merlin, and how despicable he'd been, and many other things she couldn't make heads or tails off. Drunkenness at its best… Seeing his shoulders shake in despair, Frances gathered the tall man in her arms and hugged him fiercely. It was so unsettling, to have this strong man hold on to her like a lost child, expecting her to provide solution and answers she knew she didn't have. For a moment, Arthur's pitiful sobs went on, until a second pair of arms engulfed them both from the side. Frances caught a small whiff of Kristan's smell and relaxed. His presence was so soothing … it felt so right, to be seconded by a man like him. As if nothing could ever go wrong, as if the burden was half shared. And what a burden! Gathering a sobbing King Arthur in her arms wasn't on her to-do list and she felt very intimidated. At last, Arthur straightened and wiped his eyes, turning to her man.

— "Who…. ?"

The words caught in his throat as his eyes bulged.

— "Tristan…" he whispered.

Arthur's hand came to his own chest as he crossed himself, his green gaze roaming over the man that stood before him. A knight he had buried. But there was no fear, no doubt upon his features as he considered the miracle before him. His awe echoed to hers, the day she'd first met him at the LARP a few months before and Frances couldn't help but smile. Yes. Kristan was a miracle.

— "Holy mother of God, Tristan. Is that you?"

Kristan shrugged, his face unreadable.

— "Sort of, my name is Kristan now."

This time, a smile broke upon Arthur's devastated features.

— "You even talk like her," he snorted.

Then he grabbed his forearm, and Kristan returned the gesture fiercely. The contact was so warm, so full of light that it confused Arthur. Tristan used to flee such demonstrations of affection. So Arthur pulled away, and his gaze returned to Frances.

— "How is this possible?"

— "I'll explain," Kristan said.

And Arthur openly gaped while they settled beside the fire, hearing the incredible story of Tristan's resurrection – so alike to Jesus Christ. The differences started to settle; first the scout had never talked for so long. Secondly, Kristan was more carefree, brighter, less glum. His expressions and manner of speech were so alike to Frances now, his mind even quicker than before. It brought hope to his heart. Once more, Arthur had prayed God for help. Once more, God had sent Frances and his most trusted knight, back from the dead, to help him.

So Arthur proceeded to recount the last ten years, and the reasons of his demise. His eyes were dry now, his skin returning to normal colours. Shame about his behaviour hidden behind his analytic self, except for his voice that sometimes wavered. Damn, he'd broken down in front of the lady Frances and his knight … her knight? Way to make a good first impression as a King. But she didn't seem to mind as the young woman fired question after question.

— "You were right, Frances. There was too much rancour between our people and the Picts. We moved from Hadrian's wall to Glastonbury."

— "Why Glastonbury? Anything to do with a lake lady?"

Arthur nodded; he shouldn't be surprised by the amount of information they already had; Frances always used to be one step ahead.

— "Yes… Avalon ladies. Lancelot was there for a while, disappeared for two years. He was adopted by Vivian, the high priestess of Avalon."

— " … and became Lancelot du Lac?"

_Arthur nodded his assent, missing the frown on Tristan's face. __Kristan, not Tristan. How weird, yet fitting._

— "Lancelot left?"

The knight's smooth voice called so many memories to Arthur's mind that it took him a moment to answer. Trust the scout to pinpoint the initial issue with two little words.

— "Yes. He was … unhappy. I didn't understand what the problem was back then, I was too engrossed in building the kingdom. What a fool!"

The knight's hand landed on his shoulder; his quiet presence settled him more than he cared to admit. Another proof that Kristan was a different man from the knight he had known. A man who knew how to offer reassurance, and didn't shy away from physical contact. The alcohol-induced haze was starting to fade, and it felt good to be able to talk about one of his most despicable wound. Guinevere. Did they know …? The words failed to form upon his tongue, and this time, it was Frances who reached for his hand. Surrounded by two friends whose loyalty never wavered, Arthur sighed.

— "If anything, Lancelot tried to leave rather than … you know," Frances said.

— "Make me a cuckold?"

There. The words were out, and from the lack of reaction of both his friends, they knew what he was talking about. The young woman seemed conflicted, almost shameful.

— "Yeah. Rather than that."

Was it guilt that shone in her eyes? Whatever for?

— "The priestess of Avalon said they would protect us and pray the goddess so that Briton's old beliefs and Christianity could exist hand in hand. So far it worked, and people were happy and free in their religion. In return for my leniency, they sometimes send some priestess to help us in the healing ward."

— "What happened?" Frances asked, slipping her hand into Tris … not, Kristan's.

Arthur took a deep breath, ignoring – for now – the display of affection between the couple.

— "Guinevere… She hated me for taking her away from her homeland and her father. She fought tooth and nail to remain at the wall, and for some time, I thought she hated Lancelot for bringing this doom upon her."

Frances nodded sadly, but the mention of the old sorcerer brought a spark to her chocolate eyes.

— "Speaking of Merlin…"

— " … the woads are still your allies?"

The odd phrasing – and the horrible nickname Guinevere had bashed out of his head – prevented Arthur from commenting on the fact that Frances and Kristan now completed each other's sentences. Some time, he would have to ask about their history together. But not now. Seeing a couple in love, and loyal, sent a bolt into his broken heart.

— "We stay out of their way, they stay out of ours. Nor enemies, nor allies. I suppose Merlin smoothes the relations out … well he did, before he left."

Kristan's faint eyebrows lifted to his hairline.

— "He left?"

Under the former scout's piercing gaze, Arthur suddenly felt like a child about to get a scolding. Eyes dropping to the flames, he whispered shamefully.

— "I, uh, banished him."

— "Whatever for?" Frances asked, taken aback.

Arthur stood so suddenly that the young woman nearly fell out of her stool. Anger flooded him, coursing through his veins, squeezing at his heart such as the extend of his rage. Lancelot, his brother in everything but blood, damn it! Wasn't it reason enough?

— "Because his daughter, the Queen of this kingdom, ran away with my best friend under my very nose! What is left to be trusted in this cursed family, tell me?!"

_His shout echoed against the granite wall, and for a moment, everything was silent except for his laboured breath. Then, a terrible thought occurred to him. His green eyes squinted, and Arthur straightened, donning his "King" persona. _

— "You knew, didn't you? You told me you were sorry I got married to Guinevere."

— "I was hoping it wouldn't come to pass, but yes. And I'm sorry"

_Instead of relenting to the red veil that threatened to overwhelm him, Arthur took a few deep breaths._

— "Why didn't you warn me?"

Frances stood slowly, keeping her distance yet trying to convey her feelings. Trying to reach him. Pleading to his usual poise to take over the wounded man, for his anger hurt her.

— "I couldn't, Arthur. If my guess had been wrong, I would have sown suspicion between you unfairly. But I never trusted her and warned Lancelot to stay away…"

— "And he heeded you, leaving to Glastonbury for a while. But I called him back, I needed him to build Camelot, by my side. I had lost too many brothers"

Frances shuddered then, and Kristan passed a hand over her shoulder in comfort. It was incredible, to witness their silent communication, to see a man he'd called stern and unfeeling bestow love without a second thought.

— "Yeah, I know. This is why … why I had to save him, that day."

Frances bit her lip, closing her eyes for a second. The memory of Badon Hill was a sour one, and Arthur could see how she struggled not to shed tears.

— "The day you chose Lancelot over Tristan. Even if you knew THIS could happen."

Eyes of steel pinned him in place, the unwavering resolve of the lady Frances back in full force. She'd levelled him with the same look the day she had "informed" him that she would join the battlefield.

— "I did. Would you have achieved all of this without Lancelot?"

— "Nay…", he whispered, shaking his head. "But the betrayal is even stronger because of it. Step after step, day after day he was by my side, advising, thinking, planning. And all this time, he had his sight set on MY wife. All this time … she wanted nothing more than to jump into his bed."

His hands trembled, and he clasped them behind his back.

— "The heart wants what the heart wants. You know that better than anyone, Arthur. You have loved and lost. I bet Lancelot tried to resist the pull, for his love for you was so genuine."

There were so many angry retorts that brushed the tip of his tongue before he swallowed them. She knew what she was talking about, for sure, for Tristan and herself had created a bond so strong … but at the time, she'd been betrothed to another. Could she be right? Could Lancelot suffer from such guilt? Could he be a victim of this love for Guinevere, condemned to never be with the woman he adored?

Spent, Arthur eventually sank upon his armchair, his heart broken into shards.

— "For a while, I was so angry that I thought to send troops to Avalon. I even wondered if Vivian, the priestess, had not sent Lancelot to undermine my reign. I was ready to condemn the old ways, to turn my wrath, the wrath of God upon them. To call them traitors and fools for believing in those old druidic schemes, for participating in the horrible traditions of Beltane. I was so angry that I wanted this all to disappear, and God to be the only one revered."

— "Arthur…"

— "Let me finish this. I am not proud of myself, but I very nearly proposed those decrees. I'm sure they have fled to Avalon. Lancelot said there was a magical protection that prevented people from finding the place. And I searched for it, and tried to contact Merlin. But he is gone, just like them."

Frances' stone face told him everything he needed to know; she was horrified that his anger had swayed him that way, that he might have considered such drastic measures for being scorned by his wife.

— "What brought you back?" Kristan asked.

And once more, Arthur could only marvel that his brother in arms had understood how far he had been gone at the time. Only Tristan, who had drowned the sorrow of his slavery in killing, could get that. How he regretted his fifteen years of service, killing Picts and serving Rome only to see his knights fall in the service of a decadent civilisation undermined by lies and deceit.

— "Arthur?"

— "Galahad"


End file.
